


Daughter of Twilight

by Zoop (zoop526)



Series: The Tales of Grishhûnhul [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Orc-talk, Tenth Walker, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A seemingly mortal woman with a long history in Middle Earth joins the Fellowship to 'tweak' the outcome of the War, according to specific orders by a Vala on a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting by Twilight

Branwen blinked in the sudden daylight. Where she had come from, the light was more subdued, as her master preferred it. The shimmer of a portal closing silently behind her disturbed the air for a moment. She had emerged in a stand of trees; not far beyond was a well-traveled road, rutted from a recent rain. Settling her pack more comfortably and loosening the short swords girt at her hips, she headed for the road.

As she walked, Branwen noted that the daylight was fading toward twilight; it had seemed so much brighter compared to her master's domain that she had missed that detail.

Away up the road, she heard the distant sound of a horse's hooves, growing ever closer. Hands on the hilts, she stood waiting. There was often a confederate of her master, knowingly or unknowingly, at her arrival point to greet her. The figure that approached, however, was not expected.

A ghost-like man riding a black horse advanced toward her. He slowed his horse to a walk, examining her. Then he hissed, drew his sword, and spurred his horse into a gallop, barreling toward the lone woman.

Of all the ridiculous luck, Branwen thought grimly. Swords were no use against Nazgûl. Dodging the Rider's first attack, she rolled to the side and came up in a battle stance. A word seemed to whisper in her mind, and she extended her hands in front of her. A ball of crackling energy formed between them and shot toward the Rider as he wheeled his horse for another charge.

The spell rammed into the Nazgûl with the force of a wrecking ball; he flew backwards off his horse. Spooked, the beast reared up and ran off into the trees.

"Tell your master I have come," Branwen snarled, readying another blast though the first one weakened her. The Nazgûl scuttled off the road and disappeared in the same direction his horse had run.

Suddenly, from out of the trees emerged three small young men, staring at her in awe.

"Hello," Branwen said, approaching them. "The roads are not as safe as they used to be, are they?"

"No, they are not, but he didn't seem to bother you," one of them said. "What did you do to him?"

"Good question. I have never had that ability before." _Perhaps my master provided me with a gift_ , she mused to herself.

"What are you called?" the same one said.

"I'm Branwen. And you are?"

"I am Frodo...Underhill, and these are my companions, Sam Gamgee and Pippin Took."

Branwen staggered slightly, and looked at them in shock. Her master's ambitions were bold, but this?

"Do you know us? For we don't remember you," Pippin said.

She looked up and down the road. Darkness was gathering about them. "You wouldn't believe all that I know," she whispered. "I know very well _who_ you are, _where_ you go, and _what_ you carry." She looked significantly at Frodo. Dropping to one knee before the startled hobbit, she said pointedly, "I think I'd better accompany you. You must be the one I'm looking for, Mr. _Baggins_."

They all exchanged surprised looks. "How do you...?"

"Suffice to say," she interrupted brusquely, "that I know a great deal, and I would pledge my knowledge to your service, if you would have me."

"What sort of things do you know, miss?" Sam asked suspiciously.

She winked at him. "I know you have a soft spot in your heart for a maid called Rosie Cotton." Sam jumped back as if she had given him a physical shock. "What say you, Frodo son of Drogo? Master Peregrin Took?"

Frodo looked her in the eyes for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "You seem to know much, or so you claim. In any case, you know of the Black Riders and they do not frighten you." He shuddered.

Branwen nodded, and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Well they should frighten you, for they are terrifying creatures in their own right. We should leave the road; a lone walker of the Race of Man is not what they seek, but a trio of Hobbits..." She let the thought dangle unfinished. Rising, she urged them to follow her into the trees.

Once they were well away from the road, she turned to them. "Do not look to me as a guide, for this land is unfamiliar to me. I will trust to your knowledge in where we go from here."

"We go east, to the Brandywine River," Pippin supplied. "We aim for the Bucklebury Ferry."

"Then lead on."

* * *

They hiked across the hills of the Shire well past the setting of the sun. The Hobbits' talk was light and merry, and they described their home as they went, pointing out landmarks that figured in local and personal lore. Frodo in particular relished his role as docent, happily telling stories of adventures he had in his youth. Sam still watched her warily, but it did not bother her. It was good that he was yet suspicious; it gave her renewed confidence that he was the right choice for Frodo's task.

They camped when fatigue bested the party. Branwen stayed up as they slumbered, ever watchful. She had not walked as far as them, so she was not ready for sleep. She sat in quiet contemplation of her task, and how she would go about it. Of him whom she had so recently lost, she refused any thoughts at all.

In the morning, they breakfasted and continued on. Frodo walked beside Branwen, and they talked. As night once again fell, they looked for a suitable place to set up camp. It was then Frodo saw the Black Rider on the road near them, making as if to follow their trail. They crouched and hid in silence, watching. Just as the figure began crawling toward their hiding place, the merry voices of elves could be heard approaching. The Black Rider darted away and disappeared on the other side of the road.

Sam seemed to forget all about his suspicions of her, or his fear of the Black Rider, so great was his joy in hearing the melodious elven singing. When the party was near, the companions emerged from their hiding place and approached them.

The song was one Branwen had not heard in many years, and brought a lump to her throat, hearing it sung by the familiar voices. Introductions were made, and the leader of the elves, Gildor, kept glancing at her curiously. When Pippin asked them about the Black Riders, they bade the travellers join them, and the companions followed the elves to their meeting place a few miles further.

Gildor spoke in riddles when the Hobbits pressed him for information about the Black Riders. Branwen wasn't sure if such knowledge would hinder or help, but it was not within her to lie when asked directly. Gazing sternly at the elf as he spoke, he finally acknowledged her look and addressed her.

"But you seem to disapprove," he said. "Do you know the answers to their questions, yet have not revealed what you know?"

Nodding, she said, "Indeed, that is so, but they have not asked me."

"I beg of you to withhold such information for the moment," he said, concern on his face. "If they know too much, it would freeze their hearts."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "If they ask it, I shall tell them what they wish to know. I do not lie to friends."

"Then you will frighten them," he warned.

"Should they not _be_ frightened?" Branwen countered. "Does not fear often speed one's feet, and is not haste what is required now?"

"I do not argue that Frodo must hurry to leave the Shire," he said. "I merely wish to do as little harm as possible."

"As do I. But much harm has already been done. Gandalf is delayed; counsel he would give must come from somewhere."

"Do you claim to know as much as Gandalf?" Gildor chided gently.

"In this matter, yes, and more," she replied.

This revelation caused quite a stir among the elves, as well as the Hobbits. "What do you mean?" the elf asked.

"I know much that is yet hidden, for here, it has not yet come to pass." Looking into their shocked faces, her voice softened. "I know much. Time is like a river with many tributaries; I am a pebble cast in the stream."

"Will the Enemy be defeated?" Frodo asked in a small voice.

She gazed kindly at him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "He shall be, whether I remain a pebble or become a boulder. His defeat is my chief task. Take what comfort you may in that."

"So what _are_ the Black Riders?" Pippin asked.

"Frodo knows them by another name," Branwen answered. "They are the Nazgûl. RingWraiths." Frodo gasped. "Know this, Frodo – they are utterly blind in this world. You may have noted them sniffing about for you. But if you enter their world, the Realm of Shadow, you will be revealed to them, as I am."

Gildor leaned forward. "Speak. What do you mean?"

She looked up at the elf. "They can see me, and I can see them."

"How did he appear to you?" the elf pressed, his voice quiet and full of concern.

"Like a ghost, white and nearly transparent. He bore a helm upon his head, and his face was gaunt and wasted."

The elves exchanged alarmed looks.

"Did you see his black cloak?" Frodo asked, his own voice barely a whisper.

She shook her head. "I saw no cloak, only the faded raiment of a king." She looked at Gildor. "I can see into their world as easily as my own. They cannot hide from me."

"It would appear so," he said, wonder in his face.

"It is a double-edged sword," she said grimly. "I can see them, and they can see me; there is no hiding from them. We can use it to our advantage. If we encounter one again," she said, turning to Frodo, "I may be able to distract him long enough for you to escape."

"That would not be wise," Gildor cautioned. "They are terrible beings, not to be trifled with. I suspect you are now known to the Dark Lord. He will be curious about you, and wonder what his servant's report may mean."

"I am not concerned about them," she said coldly. "I know them well; they do not frighten me."

"Rest now," Gildor said. "We will be gone by the time you waken in the morning, but you may sleep in peace and safety tonight."

* * *

The sun shone brightly upon the travelers when they rose the next morning. The elves had left provisions for them, which they gratefully packed. After a quick breakfast, they continued on.

They caught only a distant glimpse of the Black Rider dogging their trail as they struggled through the harsh and broken lands of the Marish. It was with great relief that dusk found them on Farmer Maggot's lands, and they went to his dwelling to be greeted by his hounds.

Branwen recognized them as wolfhounds, for they were huge, towering over the Hobbits by several inches. She dropped to one knee before the apparent alpha who led them, and allowed him to sniff her. Then she petted him, scratching him behind the ears. Great tongue lolling out in contentment, he sat heavily before her. The other two hounds kept Frodo and Sam at bay.

"Here now, what goes on?" came Farmer Maggot's voice as he approached.

"Hullo, Mr. Maggot!" Pippin called happily.

"Young Master Took!" the elder Hobbit cried. "What brings you here so late at night? And who comes with you?" His gaze fell on Branwen especially, still petting his enraptured hound.

Pippin quickly introduced them, and explained how they had gotten into his lane without his seeing them. At the name _Baggins_ , the farmer urged them to come into his house and, calling off his dogs, led the way.

Even though Branwen was by no means a tall person, she still was obliged to duck her head inside the low-ceilinged Hobbit house. They sat around the table and talked, for Farmer Maggot had been visited by a Black Rider only a little while before they arrived, and he had much to tell.

At his urging, and with the promise of a ride to the ferry afterwards, they stayed for a magnificent dinner with all the Maggot household. The hounds were curled up by the hearth, with the exception of Branwen's special friend, who she learned was called Wolf. He sat beside her chair at the table with his giant head upon her lap. She passed bits of food to him as she ate.

"You will ruin him," Farmer Maggot admonished with a twinkle in his eye. "I've not seen him take so to a stranger, and that's a fact."

"I have a great love of dogs, and hounds especially," she said, stroking the smooth head.

"And a way with them, I see," said Mrs. Maggot, smiling.

After dinner, they climbed aboard Farmer Maggot's wagon and departed for the ferry. It was a still night, mist-shrouded and silent. The only sounds were the creaking of the wagon and the _clop-clop_ of the ponies' hooves on the road.

When they reached the landing, Farmer Maggot halted the wagon, and they heard the sound they had been listening for with dread: hoof beats on the road ahead. Branwen got down off the wagon and stood defiantly beside the ponies. But they did not do more than prick their ears at the sound.

"It is not a Rider," she said quietly. Before the Hobbits could ask how she knew, the figure appeared in the gloom ahead, and to Branwen's calm eyes, he looked like nothing more than a hobbit upon a pony.

"Hallo there!" Farmer Maggot called nervously. "Don't you come a step nearer! What do you want, and where are you going?"

"I am looking for Mr. Baggins," the figure replied, "Have you seen him?"

Relief was palpable in the air as the Hobbits recognized Merry's voice. Greetings were exchanged, and Farmer Maggot, satisfied that they were delivered safely, turned his wagon and departed, but not without first handing a basket of mushrooms, compliments of Mrs. Maggot, to Frodo with a wink.

They boarded the ferry and struck out across the Brandywine. A glance back at the landing revealed a dark figure lurking, swaying to and fro as if searching for some sign of their passage. Branwen flattened herself on the boards, hoping to be unseen should the creature look up.

Before long, they were dropping their packs with relief inside the foyer of Frodo's house at Crickhollow. Merry had not only provided the three travelers with their own baths, but Branwen as well, in a separate room for her privacy. She was deeply grateful for this boon and thanked him heartily.

At supper, Pippin regaled Merry and Fredegar Bolger with the tale of their adventures since leaving Bag End, and gave what accounting he could of their meeting with Branwen and her history. Merry listened in wonder, his eyes searching hers for some sign of her rumored power.

In the end, Frodo could stand to wait no longer, and finally revealed to his friends that he intended to depart from Crickhollow as quickly as possible. Merry and Pippin, with occasional help from Sam, then revealed their own conspiracy, and intention to follow Frodo wherever his path lead. Branwen nodded her approval of their conviction, and urged Frodo to accept their help.

"Great things are afoot, Master Frodo," she said. "If you trust nothing else, trust in these fine friends. Small hands may turn mighty wheels – you all have tasks ahead of you in this venture."

"You riddle worse than the elves," he chided. "Will you not tell us specifics?" Frodo asked.

Chuckling, she shook her head. "Now where would the fun be in that?" Sobering, she said, "I only know that which _may_ be; while I may be able to tell you much, there is no guarantee that what I know will still happen as I recall it, or even when. As I told Gildor, I am a pebble tossed in the stream, yet I may still divert the course of the river. It is best that I not reveal too much, too early, lest my words steer you from your path."

Making such plans as they could, they settled to bed for the night. It seemed she had only just shut her eyes when she was wakened by Merry. A quick breakfast later, and they were tramping in the pre-dawn darkness, aiming for the doorway in the hedge that led to the Old Forest.


	2. Strange Prophecy

The trees were thick and hoary, their great age a comfort to Branwen. She looked about her wistfully, reaching out to touch their sturdy trunks gently as she passed. Noting her preoccupation, Merry said, "Are there no trees like these where you come from?"

"They have faded from the world," she replied sadly. "There are far too many people to allow room for a wood of this size and age. I feel as though I walk in the beginnings of the world, and the trees covered the lands from sea to sea. Such beauty and wonder as this...words cannot describe how I have longed to see it again."

"How many people?" Sam asked.

"Billions and billions," she said absently, stopping to examine the delicate veins of a leaf recently turned red by the season's change. "Men cover the world, and where they do not build their homes, they farm the land, or build such cities as would stagger your mind with their greatness. But they are not beautiful; not like the halls of elves in Rivendell, or of Men in Minas Tirith away in Gondor. No, they no longer build beautiful things, but practical ones."

"Are there Hobbits? Or elves?"

"No, Sam, both are gone. As are dwarves, unless they have long sealed themselves in their mountain holds. There is only the Race of Men."

"What of the servants of the Enemy?" Frodo asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Do they still lurk in the shadows?"

Branwen shook her head. A shadow passed over her face. "Long since driven to extinction and out of memory. No, Men only have themselves to make war against, and they do so with troubling frequency."

"Are you a warrior, where you come from?" Merry asked.

She laughed. "I have wielded sword and shield in my time, yes. Though Men no longer make war with blades."

They continued on, and though Merry sought to steer them northward to the east road, the forest seemed to have a different goal in mind. Gradually, they were herded to the south, to the very banks of the Withywindel, where stood the mightiest of willow trees. All about them, the air was thick with a drowsiness that seemed to overcome the Hobbits, though it had no affect on Branwen.

As Merry and Pippin rested themselves against the trunk of the willow, she gently lifted them and laid them apart from the tree. Patting its trunk, she said gently, "Great is your anger, I know, but leave these folk alone. They do not bear fiery brand or sharp axe." Likewise, she carried Frodo away from his perch on a giant root stretched out over the water.

With everyone accounted for and safe, Branwen sat on the banks of the river and thought. Sam had wandered off and now returned.

"What happened to them?" he asked, looking upon their sleeping faces.

"They are under the willow's spell," she explained.

Suddenly frightened, Sam said, "What can we do?"

"Nothing, for the most part, except wait."

"Wait for what?"

Faintly, she heard a voice singing a short distance away. "Not _what_ , but _whom_."

Up the path strode none other than Tom Bombadil, carefully carrying a leaf laden with white water lilies. Rising, Branwen hailed him. He smiled as he approached, for he had expected them. With his help, they roused the sleeping Hobbits and followed him to his home.

In the home of Tom Bombadil, they met the lady Goldberry, whose singing guided their weary feet to the threshold. Her voice was clear and full of merriment, and their troubles were forgotten in her presence. As night closed in outside, they supped at the table, telling and hearing many tales as the candles burned low. Eventually, Goldberry bade them good night, and retired.

They talked with Tom for awhile longer before weariness drove them to bed. The next morning, rain fell from the sky, preventing their departure for that day. They gratefully accepted the hospitality of their new friends.

When Goldberry returned later in the day, she looked at Branwen as if for the first time. "I have been granted a vision of you," she said, and all turned to hear her speak.

"You will face a grave choice, whether to turn toward the light, or pass into darkness. But heed this warning; the path of light would seem to be the better choice, and though easier and less painful, its ending will bring only sorrow."

"What of this other path? The path of darkness?" Branwen asked faintly, for Goldberry's words disturbed the woman more than any she had heard since her arrival.

"Darkness will seem to consume you, but if you choose that path, you must be strong. There is much to be gained, though it may not be clearly seen."

"What is the nature of this choice?" Branwen pressed.

"That is not known to me," the River Daughter replied. The hobbits looked at Branwen, wondering what Goldberry's words meant.

At supper that evening, the strange words of Goldberry were forgotten as they made merry. Then Tom bade Frodo show him the Ring.

With some hesitation, Frodo handed the Ring over. Tom examined it closely, then with a twinkle in his eye, he put it on. All gasped in surprise, for he did not disappear. He then passed it to Branwen.

She looked at the Ring lying in the palm of her hand. It was a simple thing, and seemed much overrated in its peril. Why, it felt as if it were made of tin or some other base metal, for all the threat it conveyed. She put it on her own finger, once more drawing a gasp from the assemblage, for she did not vanish or even fade. Taking off the Ring, she handed it to Frodo, who looked at her with a strange wonder in his eyes.

"You felt it, did you not?" Tom asked, and she realized he was talking to Frodo. "In her possession, the Ring is shielded, beyond detection."

"Yes," Frodo said, looking at the Ring suspiciously. "It felt as if a great weight were lifted from my heart, but now it is back, and heavier than ever."

Tom chuckled and turned to Branwen. "You frightened it," he said with amusement.

"Good," she said. "May its Master be equally wary of me."

"I think he is," Tom replied seriously. "You must tread carefully, for that which is viewed as a threat draws much attention to itself."

In the morning, the travelers took their leave of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry. Their feet brought them eventually to the borders of the Barrow Downs, swathed in mist.

"Stay together," Branwen warned, and they entered the Downs.

She walked behind them, keeping all four hobbits in her sight, but the fog thickened, and soon she lost track of all but Frodo. His thin voice called out to his friends, and while Branwen peered hard into the mist for some sign of them, Frodo disappeared as well, and she was alone.

Drawing her swords, Branwen advanced cautiously. Heart pounding, she called quietly for Frodo, and received no answer. Then a gruesome shape emerged from the mist.

It was a barrow-wight; it stood before her with its rotted form, maggots crawling in and out of holes in its face. The smell of it was rank, and spoke of decay and death.

Unexpectedly, Branwen was frozen in fear, unable to move or cry out. It reached for her, and at its touch, she fell, and knew no more.

When she woke, she was lying flat on the grass outside a barrow, its door ruined, and piles of treasure gathered nearby. Tom Bombadil was with them, and the Hobbits were rousing themselves from an enchanted sleep. Frodo alone seemed to have been able to resist, and though desperately frightened, recalled the words to summon Tom to their rescue.

Sitting up, Branwen looked at Tom in confusion. "How was I stricken? If the Nazgûl have no power over me, why was I at the mercy of the wight?"

"Simple fear," Tom replied. "Have you not encountered such creatures, in all your long life?"

She shook her head. "Delving into the tombs of my ancestors has never been a pastime I embraced," she said dryly. "I had best get over that fear, then," I mused. "I am in a land where the dead walk freely where the Shadow has touched."

"Quite so," Tom agreed.

Rising, Tom whistled, and there were words in his call. Before long a fat pony trotted up to them, and it was laden with packs. Trailing along behind were the hobbits' ponies.

"Ah, Fatty Lumpkin, old friend, you bring us gifts!" he cried. Untying the pony's burdens, Tom distributed the packages among them. Branwen found that her parcel contained a change of clothes well suited to her stature as well as her nature. Discarding the barrow robe, she dressed herself, adding beneath her clothes a mail shirt she found amidst the treasure. The other packs contained a rich assortment of food, and they picnicked in the shadow of the barrow mound. Before departing, she and the hobbits equipped themselves with sturdy blades.

Refreshed, the companions walked the remaining distance to the great East Road, Tom singing merrily beside them. When they reached the road, he took his leave with fond farewells, and they headed east toward Bree.

By nightfall, the travelers reached the western gate of Bree-Town, and knocked on the door. The gatekeeper peered out through the gloom and, seeing Branwen, said, "State your name and business."

"My name and my business are my own," she replied. "My friends and I have traveled far this day and wish to partake of the hospitality of the Prancing Pony, which is highly regarded even in Buckland."

"Very well, very well," he grumbled, opening the door in the gate to allow us through. "I mean no offense. There are queer folk about." He stared at the Hobbits with interest. "Hobbits, are you?"

Before any could reply, the woman cut in, "Yes, indeed, Hobbits of Buckland, traveling to visit family away in Staddle. Our paths met and as my journey leads in that direction, I agreed to accompany them, for as you say, there are queer folk about, and the roads are not safe."

He seemed satisfied with her answer and bade them good fortune. Once out of earshot, Frodo said in a low voice, "I thank you for your story; I do not think I could have made a better one so quickly."

"Had any of you spoken, your true home would have been easily known," she replied. "It is best not to acknowledge the Shire in any way, even here."

They reached the Prancing Pony and entered. The barman greeted them.

"Ho ho, welcome friends!" he cried over the din of the common room nearby. "We are full to bursting, but there are some comfortable rooms for traveling Hobbits such as yourselves." He turned apologetically to Branwen. "I am afraid you will have to make do, ma'am."

"It is no matter," she replied with a smile.

Calling for his assistants, Barliman Butterbur bade Bob and Nob take them to a Hobbit-room and make them comfortable. They did so, laying a fire in the hearth and fluffing the pillows on the beds. Butterbur himself brought a tray laden with food, which he set upon the little table in the sitting room.

"Sir," Frodo ventured, "I was hoping to meet a friend here, if you please. One called Gandalf. Has he been here?"

"Gandalf?" the barman replied. "Now what does that remind me of? Yes, indeed, Gandalf was here months ago, and left you a message. But one thing drives out another, as they say, and I was not able to send it. It may take me some time to locate it, I'm that busy. But I will look for it, and bring it to you. In the meantime, you may visit the common room if you do not mind the noise."

After he left, Branwen gathered the Hobbits around. "I will not interfere very much in what transpires, but I will give you this word of warning: take care if you decide to join the company. Gandalf gave you a traveling name, Frodo, and it would be best if all of you recalled it now."

"Underhill," Frodo said solemnly, fear growing in his eyes.

"Very good," she said. "You do not know the name Baggins, or if you find you cannot deny your knowledge, say only that you have heard of the family, but have never personally met any by that name."

The seriousness of her gaze impressed them, and they nodded their agreement. Then the party went down to the common room.

Branwen sat at a table with them, and her gaze flicked warily about the room. There were some unsavory-looking characters at the bar, glancing at them but otherwise paying them little mind. Nothing had been said of the Shire since they arrived in Bree, so Branwen hoped they would remain little regarded. Then her eyes found Aragorn.

She knew instantly it was him, as he sat in a dim corner watching them and smoking a pipe. Branwen rose and approached him.

"Do you mind if I join you?" she asked. He gestured to the bench across from him. She sat down and looked searchingly at him.

"Gandalf is late," she said quietly, and he started at her pronouncement. "We have little time," she continued, "for the Ringwraiths have doubtless picked up our trail on the road."

"Ringwraiths?" he breathed, dread in his voice. "Wait, do you know who I am?"

"Indeed," Branwen replied. "You are known hereabouts as Strider, but your true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You are one of the Dunedain, and heir to the throne of Gondor."

His face betrayed his shock at the extent of her knowledge.

"Furthermore, you are betrothed to one Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people, daughter of Elrond Half-elven. You bear the shards of Narsil, the blade which cut the Ring from Sauron's finger. Shall I go on?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Nay," he replied weakly, "you have proven yourself. Who are _you_?"

"I am no one in particular," she replied modestly. "I met Frodo and his companions in the Shire, and we have traveled together."

"How do you come to know so much about me? You cannot have learned it from Frodo, unless it was told to him by Gandalf."

"Perhaps I shall tell you my tale at another time," she said dismissively. "For now, we need your help, as you have doubtless awaited our arrival to offer as much. The Nazgûl will attack the inn this very night, in search of us."

He followed her to their table, and the travelers exchanged quiet words with the ranger. Then they all returned to the hobbits' room, Strider accompanying them.

As they began to discuss matters, Butterbur returned bearing the letter Gandalf had entrusted to him. In reading it, the Hobbits learned much about Aragorn, but not as much as Branwen knew already.

"If only you had sent this letter, I might have left sooner," Frodo lamented.

"For that, I am deeply regretful," Butterbur said sincerely. "In recompense, I will grant what aid my poor house can afford."

After he left, they made up the beds in the likeness of four small sleeping forms, filling out the blankets with pillows and bolsters. They then retreated to Strider's room. The hobbits laid out pallets on the floor and made themselves as comfortable as possible. Branwen sat in a chair at the window next to Strider, looking out in the darkness on the courtyard below.

"Tell me your history," he said suddenly. In a quiet voice, Branwen told him all she had said to her companions and the elves, and he stared at her in wonder. She continued, relating the discoveries in the house of Tom Bombadil, including the prophesy of Goldberry.

"Her words haunt me," she confessed. "It is my hope that this choice has no greater consequence than my own life."

"Think you that your life is of no great matter?" he asked with surprise.

"In comparison to the matter which weighs heavily on Frodo, no, it is not."

"Do not underestimate the impact of a single life upon the world," he said. "Even the Wise cannot see all ends."

Branwen shrugged, then straightened, for her eyes had caught movement below. "Do you see them?" she asked.

"Nay, I see nothing," Aragorn replied, frustrated.

"They must be uncloaked," Branwen explained. "There are four of them." She watched as they pried open the window of the room the travelers were but lately in, and disappeared inside.

"How is it you see them?" he asked.

Again, she shrugged. "Special gift, I suppose." Suddenly, the air was rent by a great cry of frustration and rage. Branwen smiled grimly. "Foiled again, I see."

The next morning, they surveyed the damage done by the Nazgûl in their wrath. The room was wrecked; pillows were torn and strewn about the room, furniture was overturned and in some cases broken beyond repair. They notified Butterbur of the damages, and he was distraught.

"That such a thing would happen under this very roof!" he wailed, wringing his hands.

Thankfully, their party was not marked particularly above any other group of travelers, so they were able to leave Bree without drawing much attention. In accordance with Branwen's earlier statement at the gate, they headed toward Staddle, only deviating from that course when they had gone out of sight of the walls of the town. Then they headed into the Wilds.


	3. The Knife Diverted

The days passed uneventfully as Strider led the party through the Chetwood and out into Midgewater Marsh. Branwen had forgotten how tedious this sort of travel could be, as she swatted ineffectually at yet another swarm of mosquitoes. She wasn't entirely sure why her master would deposit her so far away from his goal, both in time and space, but his full vision could not possibly be known to her. Though faithful, and obviously his favorite agent, she was not privy to all his secrets. It was certainly not the first time he allowed her to suffer. This was, by far, the least painful by comparison.

It was no matter. For whatever reason, he wished her to be _here_ , among the eventual heroes of the coming war. Who was she to question his designs?

"What do they live on when they can't get hobbit?" Sam groused.

Laughing, Branwen said, "They do not only feed on hobbit, I assure you."

Another day of slogging through the midge-filled swamp brought little comfort, for the low-lying ground robbed even tall Strider of a view to its ending. Branwen kept herself to the rear of the party, careful not to engage too much in conversation with the stoic Dúnedan. He frequently stared thoughtfully at her, as if he could somehow detect her nature, perhaps guess at her identity. She had operated in the shadows for so many millenia, it was unnerving in the extreme to be back among those who might actually be capable of seeing through her guise.

In camp that night, the eastern sky was illuminated by an eerie light show. Tilting her head to the side, Branwen's eyes narrowed.

"What is that light?" Frodo asked nervously. Branwen shook her head, bewildered.

Strider turned his gaze to the east, and he squinted against the distance. "It looks like lightning flashing upon the hilltop. I do not know what that portends." Turning, he fixed Branwen with a penetrating gaze. "Do _you_ know what it means?"

"What makes you think _I_ know anything?" she asked evenly.

Arching an eyebrow, he replied, "You claim to know much of what is otherwise hidden, including the whereabouts of Gandalf. At least, you knew he was delayed."

"A reasonable assumption, you will agree, I'm sure."

"How did you know he was even involved in this?" the ranger countered. "That is _not_ a reasonable assumption."

Sighing deeply with no little annoyance, she folded her arms defiantly over her chest. "I know much, but not all." She gestured eastward. "That little display is not known to me. Gandalf's current whereabouts, also unknown. His role, however, _is_ known. Why he was delayed in meeting Frodo... that knowledge will be revealed in good time. It shall not come to you from me."

"If such information would aid us..."

"It will _not_ come from me," she snapped.

Her tone and demeanor ended the discussion. Strider sighed and turned his gaze back to the mysterious lights on the horizon.

Another three days of travel finally deposited them in a hollow at the foot of Weathertop, remembered by Branwen and Strider as Amon Sûl. Remaining behind with Sam and Pippin, Branwen settled herself within the dell while Strider took the others to the top of the ruins.

"We should not light a fire," she said absently. "There may be unfriendly eyes about. We have been lucky thus far; I would not trust to luck for much longer."

"You sound as cheerless as Strider," Pippin said, sitting on the cold ground and pulling his cloak tighter about his shoulders. "Why won't you tell us what's going on? You obviously know."

Glancing at him, she shook her head. "No. The time is not right for me to...interfere."

"Will there be a time when you _will_ interfere?" Sam asked as he unloaded the pony's burdens.

"Most definitely," she said simply, but did not elaborate.

The hobbits shared a bewildered look. "And when will that be?"

"When the time is right," she replied, suppressing a smile as both halflings sighed in exasperation.

Shrugging, Sam wandered off to explore the dell, but Pippin was not so easily put off.

"So...how will you know the time is right?" he pressed, eyes narrowed slyly.

"My gut will tell me," Branwen said with amusement. "Or happenstance will be my guide. I will likely not know until the moment is upon me. I can't tell you anything more interesting than that."

"You are a puzzle, Lady Branwen," he said, shaking his head.

"Just Branwen, if you please. Formality in the wilds is unnecessary."

Sam came trotting up a few minutes later. "There are footprints, over by a stream not far from here."

"Stay," she warned as Pippin rose to investigate. "Leave them for Strider. He is Dúnedan. He will need to read the signs, and the less you trample them, the easier time he will have."

Reluctantly, the hobbits sat down. Not long after, their companions returned. Pippin leaped to his feet.

"Did you find anything interesting?" he asked eagerly, only to falter at the expressions on their faces.

"The Enemy is near," Strider said grimly. "We saw them, gathering not far along the Road. I fear they will make for this site by nightfall. We should prepare ourselves."

Branwen gave a short nod. "Then a fire would be our best protection. Sam, Pippin – fetch firewood, as much as you can carry. There is likely enough hereabouts, fallen from the older trees. Strider – Sam found some footprints not far from here. You may wish to have a look."

"I would," he said. "Sam, hold. Show me these prints." The two hobbits and the ranger trotted off into the gathering gloom.

"Frodo," Branwen said sternly, "I would remind you again. No matter what the temptation, do not put on the Ring. As I said before, you will become known to them, and the attention of the Nazgûl is not desired by anyone, least of all yourself. Make sure you secret it away where you cannot easily get to it."

"Why don't you carry it?" Merry asked as Frodo fumbled the chain bearing the Ring deeper beneath his clothing. "It doesn't affect you, and you shield its presence."

"I am already known to the Nazgûl," she replied patiently. "I am no protector. And I am not the Ringbearer, nor do I desire to be. I can act as a distraction only. Trust me, I will likely be as much a target as Frodo when they come. With luck, moreso."

"That does not sound 'lucky' to me," Frodo said uncertainly. "Do they not... frighten you?"

"No more than any other true servant of the Enemy," she said dismissively, then smiled. "Which is to say, yes, Frodo, they do frighten me."

Upon Pippin and Sam's return, Branwen busied herself building up a roaring fire. Strider informed her and the two hobbits of the signs they discovered upon the ruined crown of the hill. "Those lights we saw a few days ago must have been from Gandalf, if I read the message right. Though why he needed to blast the hilltop with fire, I cannot be sure."

"Should be obvious," Branwen snorted. "There is no better vantage point for spying the East Road than Amon Sûl. It is a wonder we did not find the Nazgûl waiting for us. Were I a Ringwraith, I do believe I would attack anyone I found here, particularly if that person was a wizard."

"That much, I could guess," Strider replied stiffly. "What is not clear is _what_ attacked Gandalf, I should say." Branwen merely shrugged.

The hobbits huddled together in the hollow as the man and the woman stood resolutely just within the dancing firelight, their eyes turned toward the gloom. Supper had been a meager affair, lightened only by ancient tales related by the Dúnedan. One passage in particular haunted Branwen, clutching hard at her heart in remembrance.

_One moment stood she, and a spell_   
_His voice laid on her: Beren came,_   
_And doom fell on Tinúviel_   
_That in his arms lay glistening._

Faithful she was, but there would ever be a cold place left in the wake of _his_ loss, and the part her master played. But even in this, it was not her place to question.

She could not indulge thoughts of her lost love for long. Her keen eyes caught movement in the darkness.

"They come," she said softly, calmly, and drew her swords.

"Take up a flaming brand, each of you," Strider ordered, casting his eyes about. The shadows began to take shape, yet he still could not be sure how many were there.

"Stay back," Branwen hissed when Merry advanced. "Shield Frodo."

The shades approached warily, and Branwen took several steps forward to meet them.

"What are you doing?" Strider cried.

" _Mal brus-izgu tul?_ " one of the Nazgûl hissed, its voice hollow, malicious, and mocking. " _Ghung ta narkul shaûk-golug-hai. Nar hon-izgu lat kûr. Mol kul-lat?_ " [What have we here? If it isn't the elf-friend. We have not seen you in a long time. How fare you?]

" _Mol maath lat-ob shagat_ ," Branwen sneered. [How sweet of you to ask.] She flexed her shoulders, spun her short swords, and assumed a fighting stance. " _Nork gakhat, Angmar. Ta ghashnat za lat nar lûmpub naakh-sharla-irzi. Lat narkul zam sharkû za lat narpaash honat ur kul-izg._ " [Take care, Angmar. It is said you will not fall by a man's hand. You are not such an old man that you cannot see what I am.]

" _Ghashanuzu_ ," the wraith scoffed, drawing its sword and a long knife. " _Fûru ghashnuzut darûkûrz-irzi._ " [Stories. Lies told by the weak.]

" _Ghung za kulat ogh lat nargzab-ta_...," she said with a shrug, then leaped forward. [If that is the way you want it...]

Strider was stricken with shock at the exchange, and slow to react when the woman launched her attack. A torch in each hand, the ranger worried the creatures' flank, catching their robes on fire. Branwen remained locked in battle with the leader. To his dismay, Strider saw the small figures of the hobbits joining the fray, waving their own brands about and crying out the names of Varda in their wrath.

The Dúnedan was helpless to prevent what happened next. Though he and the hobbits kept the others at bay, the tall wraith took advantage of a brief crack in the woman's defense. It drove the knife into her arm, wrenching it hard. Crying out, Branwen retreated, clutching her injury and glaring in fury at the Nazgûl lord.

" _Honub-izgu lat urzkû. Aarûrz._ " Bending in a mocking bow, the wraith retreated, followed by its fellows. [We will see you again. Soon.]

"Bastard," Branwen muttered, then slid to the ground, her knees giving way.

"Are you well?" Strider cried, rushing to her side and embracing her before she could collapse completely. "Sam, Merry, build up the fire." The hobbits hastened to obey.

" _Athelas_ ," Branwen murmured, her hold on consciousness slipping. "Then we must fly. Rivendell. As quickly as...we...can..." Her voice trailed off to a whisper, then she slumped in the ranger's arms.


	4. Identity Discovered

The bright sunlight stung her eyelids as she woke from long slumber. Her last clear memory was of falling at the foot of Amon Sûl, her strength abandoning her soon after the Witch-king's cursed blade wounded her. Now, she seemed to have awoken inside of a dream.

She recognized Elrond's House, though it had been many lifetimes since she last saw it in its glory. Briefly, a vision of the walls covered in strangling vines, the cobblestones cracked and half-buried in dirt and moss, trees growing where buildings once stood, appeared before her.

Branwen squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again slowly. No decay could be seen; it was as the Last Homely House had ever been, when the Lord of Rivendell held power there.

Struggling to sit up, and swooning briefly, she mustered the strength and will to stand. A heavy bandage covered her left arm. Great pain assailed her as her wound throbbed anew. With great care, and no small amount of swearing under her breath, Branwen rose and dressed herself in the clean clothes laid by. Then she emerged from her room.

The leaves of Rivendell were turning, so the trees were a wonder to behold. The woman gazed about her in wonder. She couldn't even begin to count the years since she looked upon their beauty, here in the embrace of Imladris.

"You should not have ventured forth so soon," a voice admonished. She turned and beheld Gandalf, and stiffened with alarm. "I do not believe we have been properly introduced." His expression told her he knew very well who she was.

Glancing up and down the empty hall, Branwen said in a low voice, "Gandalf, it would seem you do indeed come on your own time."

"I was delayed by circumstances I would not disclose here," he replied. "Time enough for tales of that sort when the Council is called."

"Will I be invited or no?" she asked, arching her brow.

"Aye, I believe so, for you are wrapped up in the fate of Middle Earth just as surely as is Frodo." His eyes glittered. "You bear a great burden, nearly as great as his, if not moreso."

Branwen started, tilting her head slightly and peering at him with furrowed brow. "What burden do you believe I bear?"

He smiled. "We shall speak of these things in good time, I assure you."

"But the others, how do they fare?" she finally asked.

"All are well; it was you we were not so sure of," he replied.

She snorted dismissively. "It would take more than a Morgul blade to hinder my purposes."

"Do not dismiss the power of the Enemy, no matter your mysterious resistance to Him," Gandalf warned. "It was not one shard but five Elrond removed from you, and while you did not, in the end, succumb to their evil power, you came very close to the point of turning, ere Elrond tended you."

Chagrined, Branwen nodded.

* * *

The Council of Elrond was called within a few days. There were many representatives of the Free Peoples in attendance, yet Branwen was the only woman. Seated between Frodo and Elrond, she fidgeted in her chair. Her arm still pained her, and remained in a sling. Her eyes swept the assembly; she knew their names, though they had not been announced yet. There stood Legolas of Mirkwood, tall and proud as any elf. Gimli stood with feet apart, hands resting on the pommel of his axe haft. Grim was his countenance as he surveyed the others. Her eyes fell on Boromir; strong of arm and broad of shoulder, he stood tall and proud, yet travel worn and shoddy compared to everyone else. He looked as if he had just dismounted from a long journey, which indeed he had. Weariness was on his brow, but also an eager light in his eyes, for he could sense the answer to his riddle was near at hand. He met Branwen's gaze and looked strangely on her; clearly he had not expected a female in such a gathering.

Elrond began to speak, thanking all who had traveled so far in answer to summons or other calling. The first to disclose his tale was Gandalf, who revealed the betrayal of Saruman to the dismay of the assembly. All the while, Boromir's eyes oft found Branwen's across the porch. No doubt he wondered what part she played in these events.

At length, Boromir gave an accounting of his purpose, and of the dream he and his brother had shared. In answer to the riddle of his dream, Elrond bade Frodo reveal the Ring.

A hush fell on the Council. As the Ring lay before them, Bilbo recounted his discovery of the Ring, and then Frodo told the tale of his flight from the Shire. He did not leave Branwen out of the telling, either; Frodo spoke with admiration of her deeds, from her valiant encounter with a Black Rider upon their first meeting, to the attack on Weathertop. All looked on her with wonder, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, looking anywhere but at the many faces turned her way.

More than her bravery on Weathertop, it was her immunity to the Ring that caused the greatest stir. Even Elrond had not heard of this.

"We sat in Tom Bombadil's house, and he put on the Ring," Frodo related. "Nothing happened, it was as if the Power of the Enemy had no effect. With a twinkle in his eye, he tossed it to Branwen and bade her put it on. Then...something very strange happened that none of us expected."

Gandalf, leaning forward, said, "What happened?"

"I...do not know how to explain it," Frodo said, shrugging helplessly. "When she held it in her hand, it was like a veil had been removed from my eyes, and a great weight taken off my heart. So long has the Burden been in my keeping, I did not realize its affect on me, for it is a growing thing, if you take my meaning. Yet in her possession, it is as if … as if it is shielded from outside detection, as it were. Then she put the Ring on, and like Tom, she did not vanish."

The porch erupted in talk, as all began asking questions. Suddenly their attention was fully on her. Elrond waved his hands and begged quiet to resume.

"I believe now it is time for Gandalf to reveal all he knows of our new friend," Elrond said, gesturing for Gandalf to continue. Branwen stiffened once more, and fixed the wizard with a wary glare.

Gandalf stood and addressed the Council once more. "When Branwen was brought to Elrond's House a week ago, nearly dead from her injuries, I was amazed that she had not yet faded, as any others with her injuries would have long since succombed. She was struck down by the Lord of the Nazgûl himself. The most grievous injury was made by a cursed Morgul blade, which turns its victim to the Shadow if but a sliver is left in the wound. Elrond may attest that he removed several slivers from her body." Again the assembly set to murmuring in wonder. "I sought answers to this riddle, and probed her mind as she recovered."

Branwen's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she leaned forward. Gandalf glanced at her and smiled gently in apology.

"Branwen," he said, "do I have your permission to reveal...?"

"No, you do not," she snapped, leaping to her feet. Her eyes flicked to Elrond nervously. The elf lord's eyes narrowed suspiciously, as if he only now began to wonder about her. Returning her gaze to Gandalf, she hissed, "We shall discuss it later, if you like, but do _not_ say another word."

"Such deceit is unbecoming," the wizard admonished quietly. "In the house of your..."

"Gandalf!" she roared, her voice shattering the quiet of the morning and silencing all murmurs among the attendees. "Not...another...word."

Brows furrowing, Gandalf bent forward slightly in a stiff bow. "As you wish."

Turning to the assemblage, the wizard carefully said, "Branwen has great knowledge of our struggles. The events to come are veiled to us, yet to her, they are long past. In her walks a foretelling of all our plans, and the Enemy's as well. But alas, her presence has been discovered by the Dark Lord."

The Council cried out in dismay. Gandalf waved them to quiet once again. "Yes, He knows of her. The Rider you met in the Shire, Branwen," he said, turning to her, "reported to his master. The Dark Lord bent his will toward you, and eventually found you. What is worse, Saruman has learned of you also; he may already have his forces out looking for you as well as the halflings."

Branwen's lip curled in disdain. "Let them come. If his mind is bent on me, he will miss the real prize."

Aragorn finally spoke up. "You do not wish his attention, Branwen," he said. "The knowledge you have would be wrested from you under torment and pain. Do you believe you could withstand it, and not reveal all?"

Branwen slowly turned her head toward the ranger. "You think me frail? Weak? A delicate flower?"

"No," he replied uncomfortably. "I merely meant..."

"Do not underestimate _me_ , Dúnedan," she snarled. "I have faced the Nazgûl many times before now. They cannot hold me, or thwart me."

"With such power as Frodo described, perhaps you are correct," Aragorn allowed. "Yet I did not see you use it against the Witch-king."

"Nor did I strike him down, when a blow from my hand would undoubtedly have spelt his ruin," Branwen retorted. "'Not by the hand of man will he fall,'" she quoted with a sneer.

"When have you faced the Nine?" Elrond asked, frowning.

"Times long past," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Enough to know them well."

"And their tongue," Aragorn said quietly. "I forgot until now, we were so bent on bringing you hither as quickly as we could. You conversed with the Lord of the Nazgûl. You spoke the tongue of the Dark Lord's servants. How came you by this knowledge?"

Branwen's eye twitched, the only sign of her discomfort. "Perhaps I am counted among the Wise, to whom such knowledge is of interest," she replied, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Turning to Elrond, she calmed herself and said, "I pledge my swords and my will to your House. If you see fit to accept me, I will follow Master Frodo even into the Black Land itself."

Elrond nodded. "And so you will, for the burden of carrying the Ring to its destruction in the Fires of Mount Doom is laid upon the Ringbearer, and such companions as are willing to walk that dark road."

"What is this talk of destroying the Ring?" Boromir asked. "Should we not use the weapon of the Enemy against him?"

"The Ring cannot be wielded by any save the Dark Lord himself," Elrond stated firmly. "It is altogether evil, and I will not touch it."

"If I am counted in any way an authority in these matters," Branwen said, "I will say this: the Ring of the Enemy was wrought by his hand, _for_ his hand, and his hand alone. Such a great portion of his will went into the forging of this Ring, that even when it was cut from his finger and he seemed defeated, he was not." She paused as the wastes of the Plateau of Gorgoroth, swarming with orcs, flitted across her mind. "Recall that Isildur took possession of the Ring and was betrayed to his doom, for the Ring knows its Master and will ever strive to return to him. There is much of the Dark Lord woven into that Ring, and it will corrupt the wearer."

"Such events are long past, even by our reckoning," Boromir insisted. "Stout-hearted men and true would not be so corrupted."

"And was not Isildur stout of heart and true?" she countered, eyebrows raised. "Was he not of the race of Númenor, one of the last true kings of Gondor? Did he not stand at the threshold of the Dark Lord's downfall, and turn aside for desire of the Ring? Do not underestimate the power of this Ring, for the closer it gets to its Master, or to its doom, the stronger its will becomes."

* * *

By nightfall of the following day, the Council had decided on a fellowship of ten to counter the Nine, the tenth being Branwen. She managed to avoid any private discussions with Gandalf for the better part of a week, as the newly formed Fellowship prepared for the looming departure. But the wizard could not be held at bay forever.

"A word or two, if I may?"

Branwen bristled at the sound of Gandalf's voice, knowing she could not escape him this time. "Aye," she sighed, defeated. "You may."

"Good," he said with an amused smile. "My patience was nearly at its end. Come. We will talk." He led her to a quiet corner of the Hall of Fire, where no ears would hear. Turning, he regarded the woman thoughtfully before speaking.

"How many ages have you walked upon the face of Arda?"

Smirking, she folded her arms over her chest. "It is not polite to ask a woman her age, Mithrandir."

"Indeed," he replied, chuckling softly. "I wonder that you have returned. Do you not fear...running into yourself?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know as well as I that I had long since sailed to the West by this time. There is no danger of embarrassing meetings."

"Quite so," he said, nodding. "All the more reason to disguise yourself, I would say. When all who knew you have either taken the Straight Road themselves, or would be dismayed to see you still here." Sobering, his brow furrowed sternly. "What game do you play?"

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. "None that should be of concern. I do not work against you."

"I should hope not," he replied. Humor once more softened his countenance. "Truly an irony, pledging yourself to Elrond's House."

"I thought that might amuse you." A smile flitted uncomfortably across her face.

"Tell me...Branwen," he said, lingering on her name for a moment. "How did you come to be here? I cannot imagine that you somehow mastered time travel."

Ducking her head, she scuffed her toe on the carpet. "You are correct. Such travel is beyond me. My... master sent me."

"Whom do you serve, Branwen?"

She nearly bent under the _istar_ 's scrutiny, but steeled herself and faced him with stormy countenance. "My master."


	5. Stepping In

A weary fortnight out of Rivendell, Gandalf approached Branwen and asked, "What say you, then, of our road ahead?"

Sighing, Branwen looked away. "Ever you ask, and I say that I must keep silent lest you turn from your path." She felt all eyes of the company upon her as she continued. "There is doom in any direction. If we attempt the Red Horn, we will be thwarted. If we choose the southern road through Moria..." She hesitated.

"What then?" Aragorn urged.

"It is a foul place," she finally said. "There is naught there but orcs and...Durin's Bane."

"What road does history say that we took?" Gimli asked eagerly.

"A plague on you all for dragging such information from me," she snarled. "You're worse than the Dark Lord, for him I could lie to." Taking a deep breath, she said, "It is reckoned that the company attempted the Pass but were turned aside by great storm. They then took the dark road through Moria."

"Did they...we pass?" Gandalf asked quietly.

"The company did. In part." she said. Branwen tried not to look at Gandalf, but he took hold of her chin and forced her to face him.

"And the Ringbearer?"

"He passed also."

"Then we are resolved," Gandalf said. "We save ourselves much toil and wasted time by going straight to Khazad'dûm."

* * *

They stood before the hidden gate to Moria. Stretched out behind them was the black expanse of a still lake. Gandalf murmured numerous words at the door, trying to hit on the right password. Branwen refused any aid, sitting sullenly on a rock by the lakeside.

"I do not like the look of that lake," Frodo said, shuddering.

"'Tis only water," Boromir said dismissively, then stooped to pick up a rock. Branwen leaped at him and grabbed his wrist.

"Do not," she hissed, "disturb the lake." He shook her hand off and threw the rock.

With a dull splash, it hit the water, causing ripples to expand across the mirror-like surface.

"Masterfully done," she said, slapping the back of Boromir's shoulder. "You can defend us from it, then."

"From what?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. The ripples on the surface were becoming larger, not smaller, as they continued to lap at the banks.

"Ah, _mellon_!" cried Gandalf at last, and the doors began to open. "There, see? It is the simplest riddles that are hardest."

The company began to enter the gates, but Branwen kept wary eyes on the water. Boromir too lingered. Suddenly, great tentacles erupted from the surface of the lake, stretching at least thirty feet in length.

"Get inside!" the woman yelled, grabbing Boromir and flinging him bodily toward the doorway. The creature's shrieking cry was deafening. A tentacle reached out and made a grab for Frodo as he ran. "Oh no you don't," Branwen muttered and launched herself on the slimy arm. Her blade sunk into the rubbery flesh and the tentacle released Frodo. Another tentacle slammed down on top of her, forcing the air from her lungs. She felt hands grabbing her shoulders, and the great weight of the arm lifted. Staggering, she allowed Boromir to drag her into the mines. Finally they were all inside. Aragorn and Boromir slammed the doors shut.

Branwen gasped for breath, collapsing on the floor. Aragorn felt her ribs carefully. "At least one is broken," he reported. "I will have to set it or it will pierce your lung. Are you prepared?"

Nodding, she shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. The pain was excruciating, but she held in her cries, merely grunting and hissing through clenched teeth.

With difficulty, Branwen stood. Aragorn used what bandages he had to wrap her ribs and keep them from grinding. "You will ever be the one with the most injuries, won't you?" he said gently.

"Hmph," she snorted. "I'm the most foolhardy, I suppose."

"What was that thing?" Boromir asked.

"One of the delightful friends the dwarves awoke with their delving," she said. Glancing at Gimli who seemed ready to retort, Branwen said gently, "Forgive me, my friend; I meant no offense."

Outside they could hear the beast pulling down rocks to seal the exit.

"And so we are committed," Gandalf said. Causing a thin light to shine from his staff, he lead the way into the darkness.

Branwen found in time that Boromir walked at her side. "You could have warned me," he said.

"I did, or were you knocked in the head and lost all memory?" she snapped.

"You only said not to disturb the water, not what would happen if I did," he replied, his anger rising.

"Must I forever be explaining the full reasoning behind my words?" she hissed. "In this darkening land, you should heed my warnings without question."

"I'll not be schooled by a woman," he retorted. "Least of all a camp follower disguised as a soldier."

"Ah, yes, now it is laid out," she snarled. "Big strong man considers woman weak and stupid; heeds not her warning and marches blindly off cliff."

"You have a sharp tongue; perhaps a thrashing would do you good," he snarled.

"By such as you?" she scoffed. "Better to be whipped by an orc; I'd be certain to feel it."

"That can be arranged," he growled.

At length they were halted at a crossroads, and Gandalf was at a loss of their next turning. "Let us take what rest we may for a time," Aragorn said as Gandalf pondered the way.

Near to hand was a guard room, where they laid out blankets. As they settled in, Branwen approached Pippin, laying a firm hand on his shoulder, for even now his gaze was fixed on the wide yawning mouth of a well in the center of the room.

"For the good of the company, and the continued success of our passage here," she said quietly, "do not test the deepness of that well. Our hope lies in silence, and such a noise will rouse any enemies lurking in the depths."

He swallowed, his eyes searching hers in the dim light of Gandalf's staff. "How did you know what was in my mind?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

"I am gifted of foreknowledge, or had you forgot?" she said, then smiled. "And your thoughts are as clear as if they were written across your face."

All remained quiet as Gandalf and Aragorn spoke at length about which way to take. Gimli stood at the doorway watching. Branwen laid upon her pallet and closed her eyes, hoping for a few winks of sleep before they started again.

"What said you to the halfling?" Boromir whispered.

"That he should not follow in the footsteps of the foolish man of Gondor by throwing stones into pools," she said quietly.

"And what if he did?" he asked, choosing to let her insult lie for the moment. "We have encountered no foe in this dead place. What is there left to rouse?"

"Would you like a full accounting of what is in these halls, down in the dark, waiting for some sign of stealthy passage through their territories?" she demanded, turning her head to glare balefully at him. "I warned you not to question me."

He was silent for several seething moments. "You risk much with your tongue."

She rolled toward him and leaned close. "Have a care, Boromir. My tongue is in service to none but my master, and you are not he."

"If you would use it for the good of the company," he sneered, "let me be the first."

She glanced over her shoulder to where Gandalf and Aragorn stood in thoughtful counsel. "I'd sooner lick a troll. Were it not for the survival of the company, I would show you such treatment as you have earned." He had scarcely seen her move, yet her dagger was at his throat.

"In time, you shall be tamed," Boromir said, though warily, his eyes on the keen blade.

"Not by any man's hand, and certainly not yours," she retorted, sheathing the dagger once more. With a last angry glance, she rolled over and put her back to him.

At long last, Gandalf settled on a passageway, and they broke camp to follow. Branwen avoided Boromir now, for so angry was she that she feared, in her wrath, to commit some mischief against him. Much greater noise there would be in the plummet of a man down a well than a pebble.

By and by they came to the resting place of Balin, and there Gimli was overwrought with grief. But their passage had not been as unmarked as they thought. Even as Gandalf read the final entries of the brittle journal left in tatters upon the floor, they heard them: drums sounding in the deeps.

All eyes went to Branwen, as if she pounded them. "Why do you look to me?" she asked, her voice rising in fear. "I did all I could to keep our movements silent. I know not what alerted them."

"We don't blame you," Aragorn said. "But you knew of this; it is reckoned that we fight our way out of Moria, is it not?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. Then they heard the sounds of the approaching host.

"Bar the doors!" Gandalf shouted, and Boromir and Aragorn rushed to bar entry. All their company drew swords and prepared for the coming onslaught.

A cave troll attempted entry but was thwarted, then the wedged doors burst asunder and a wave of squat orcs poured through. Branwen waded into the fray, both swords flashing.

Their defense was strong, and the first wave collapsed and retreated. Before they could flee out the eastern door, a great orc chieftain came roaring into the Chamber of Mazarbul. Deflecting Boromir's immediate attack, the orc threw a spear into the company. It struck Frodo and pinned him to the wall.

Aragorn was quick to dispatch the orc, sending the front line into disarray for a moment. Lifting the hobbit carefully, the ranger joined the others as they fled out the east door behind Gandalf.

Branwen brought up the rear, and was halted by the broken body of an orc. He was gasping his last, obviously in great pain. Pity overwhelmed her, and she knelt beside him. " _Melkor nork-lat dumûl fraut-lab-u_ ," she whispered, then thrust her sword into his heart. The orc jerked and stilled, his face relaxed. Then she hastily ran out the door. [Melkor speed you to your rest.]

Gandalf attempted to seal the door behind them, but met a great force of will and strove against it. While he struggled, the company sighed with relief, for Frodo was only bruised by the spear.

"I'm fine, really," he insisted, pushing their hands away.

"You should be dead!" Aragorn cried. But there was no time for pondering this riddle. Gandalf staggered into their midst and collapsed.

"I have met my match. We must make haste. Stay close, all of you." Lurching to his feet, the wizard led them down the passage.

They ran from that place with all haste, following in desperation a path Branwen had hoped to walk with care. A greater host of goblins and orcs flowed behind them than could be imagined. But even as they came within sight of the last bridge, a deafening roar shook the halls of Khazad'dûm.

All halted and turned back, even their pursuers. Cringing in fear, they scattered, disappearing into the shadows.

"Durin's Bane," Branwen whispered, dismay in her voice.

"Run!" Gandalf cried. "This foe is beyond you all!"

The bridge was narrow, barely wide enough for single file marching, yet they ran headlong across it with little heed to the great chasm it spanned. Gandalf paused in the center. Branwen stopped also, and turned to him.

"Fly!" he shouted over the roar of the coming menace. "Not even you can stand against it!"

"That I know!" she cried, and fear was in her eyes. "You are fated to battle it, this I also know, though I sought to prevent it. We will see you again, Gandalf Greyhame." Grasping his arm in farewell, she flew across the bridge to the company.

They watched as the Balrog approached Gandalf and faced his challenge. Branwen's ears dulled as dread filled her heart. As if in silence, Gandalf smote the bridge, and the Balrog fell into the depths. She willed it otherwise, bending such thoughts as she could muster against the paths of destiny, yet still the Balrog's cruel whip found Gandalf and yanked him from the broken span.

"Fly, you fools!" he cried as he plummeted after the flaming demon.

The company cried out, and would have rushed to the precipice to catch one last glimpse of their fallen ally, but for the renewed vigor of the goblins upon the other side. Their arrows clattered against the stones about the company, striking shield and cloak. They turned and fled from the mines.


	6. Lost and Found

Like flotsam cast up by a mighty storm, the survivors lay upon the rocky slope of the mountain in grief. Branwen sat apart, hugging her knees and rocking slowly, staring at nothing.

"Come," Aragorn said gently, "You could not stand by him before such a foe."

"I would have," she whispered.

Aragorn roused them and urged them to continue, for the fury of the orcs would spill from the mines by nightfall, and they needed haste to save them from more loss.

As if in a dream, Branwen stumbled along with the company. So distant were her thoughts, and so heavy her brooding silence, that not even Boromir sought sport with her.

In time, they entered the Golden Wood, and stood before Galadriel and Celeborn. So profound was Branwen's grief that she could not even look upon them. Only at Galadriel's touch upon her cheek did Branwen meet her eyes.

"You carry much in your heart that is heavy and burdensome," she said gently, or perhaps her words were in the mind only. "Be content, for all is not lost."

Branwen nodded wordlessly. And so Galadriel spoke with each member of the company.

They were brought to a glade where pavilions were erected for their rest and comfort. Branwen sought solace and cleansing, and their attendants directed her to a secluded pool where she could refresh herself.

Shedding her travel stained clothing, she submerged herself in the pool and washed away the grime and weariness. But upon the bank she sat in her nakedness and wept bitterly for what was lost, now and before. After some time, she rose and dressed in the clean clothes given to her, and wandered into the wood.

It was in her wanderings that Branwen encountered Galadriel once more. She stood as if she had been awaiting the woman's approach, and welcomed her with a soft smile.

"I know you," she said quietly, "though you seek to hide yourself. You are not so guarded as, perhaps, you were in Imladris. Elrond did not mark you."

Branwen was beyond concern for her identity now. The loss of the wizard weighed heavily upon her, and she wasn't sure why. "I did not wish him to know. I _still_ do not."

"It would bring him joy to see you again." The elf queen reached up and tucked a lock of Branwen's hair behind her rounded ear. "You have striven to hide yourself. Why?"

"My reasons are my own," she replied.

"No," Galadriel said softly, shaking her head. "They are your master's. He casts a shadow upon you, shielding you from my eyes, as I suspect he shielded you from the cursed Morgul blade."

Branwen nodded. "That he did. I should not have survived for so long without his aid."

"And yet you will not reveal him to me," she said, her expression curious. "He is one of the Valar, is he not?"

Bristling, Branwen lifted her chin defiantly. "I am sworn, Lady Galadriel. I do not take such vows lightly."

"It is no matter," she said soothingly. "He will show his hand in his own time, I am certain." Smiling gently, Galadriel crooked her finger, beckoning Branwen to accompany her. They walked side-by-side down the path in silence for a few minutes before the Lady spoke again.

"You have an interesting history. What little I have gleaned in your few unguarded moments." The elf woman's mirth was as kind as her manner. "You were a chronicler, I believe?"

"Yes, for many years," Branwen replied, resigned. "My reports fill volumes in the libraries of Valinor."

"I am told the chroniclers bear witness," she continued. "Is this so?"

"It is so."

"A noble, but dangerous, calling," she observed. "To be close at hand when great events transpire. Great battles."

"Indeed." Branwen frowned, wondering what game Galadriel was playing with her 'innocent' conversation.

"Do you still?" she asked. "Bear witness?"

"No."

Galadriel sighed. "I am not trying to trick you into revealing your secrets, child," she admonished lightly.

"Forgive me, I mean no offense," Branwen replied automatically, and not very convincingly.

"I am not offended," the elf said. "There are other things in your mind that I might consider offensive. I choose to overlook them."

"The lady is generous," Branwen said coldly.

"His death haunts you."

"That it does," she replied, unnerved by Galadriel's acknowledgement of her grief. "I would prefer not to discuss it, if you do not mind."

"That would please me, of course, but he was...," Galadriel began, but Branwen interrupted her with a harsh tone.

"I will not discuss him. End of story."

"Very well," Galadriel said. "There is one thing I would like you to reflect upon, and that is the matter of the choice that is to be laid before you. I believe you know of this."

Branwen nodded, a little surprised that Galadriel was also aware of Goldberry's prediction.

"We see much the same things, Goldberry and I," Galadriel said with a smile. "You should prepare yourself. It is coming very soon." Turning, she left Branwen to ponder her words.

* * *

Branwen fingered the elven broach at her throat absently as the small boats drifted downriver. Refreshed and restored by the grace of the Galadhrim, the fellowship continued on their grave mission.

As they beached the boats just above the Rauros Falls, her head jerked up, suddenly alert.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked.

"Orcs," she replied, taking another sniff of the air. "They have been here, or are close." The man looked to the elf, Legolas, for his opinion, and he nodded.

"They are close," the elf agreed.

"Then we should not tarry long," Aragorn said.

Taking two of the halflings aside, the woman knelt and said, "Our time is limited, Frodo. You need to go, quickly. We are stalked by orcs; they _can't_ take you prisoner, period."

"How do you know they won't just kill us all?"

"Trust me, I know what they're after," she replied. "You and Sam must gather what supplies you will need. Don't worry about us; if we survive, we are not far from Rohan..."

" _If_ you survive?" he repeated with dismay.

"Listen to me," she hissed sharply. "Your task is far more important than ours. Though it pains me to put them through it, the orcs are looking for halflings, and they will take whatever halflings they find."

"Merry," Frodo breathed with dread. "Pippin."

Nodding, she went on. "Their vile master wants them to be taken unspoiled, if I know him. He won't want the orcs to get their hands on his prize."

Pushing them along to gather what they needed, she joined the others. Boromir glanced back at the two hobbits rummaging in the boats. "What are they doing?" he asked curiously.

"I told them to run for it," she said casually. "We will be attacked within the hour, unless I miss my guess. We'll need to act as a diversion to give them time."

Merry looked incredulously at her. "What are you talking about? You're sending them away? They're not going anywhere without us!" He took a step toward his friends, Pippin at his side, but the woman blocked their way.

"You can't follow them this time." Kneeling once more, she said, "I hate what will happen, but you need to be decoys, if you will." Again, she explained the orcs' mission.

"How do you know all this?" Aragorn asked.

Standing, she said, "The same way I knew Gandalf would fall in Moria. The same way I knew who you were when we first saw you huddled in a dark corner of the Pony in Bree. I just _know_ things. Leave it at that." Looking around, she asked, "Where can we make a stand, keep them busy while Frodo and Sam get a head start?"

Gimli had scouted ahead a bit, and directed them to a hollow amongst the ruins at the foot of Amon Hen. Legolas climbed onto a broken span above them and readied his bow. The rest unsheathed their swords and made ready. As the sound of the approaching horde increased, the woman said, "Merry, Pippin – stay back."

A wave of Uruk-hai carrying Saruman's emblem and smaller orcs bearing Sauron's standard swept over the rise and swarmed toward them. The dwarf had chosen well; the hollow could only be reached through a gully that effectively squeezed the attacking force through a funnel. The ones in the front met a deadly group of fighters whose location allowed them elbow room to cut down any orc that emerged. At the same time, the elf above rained arrows down on their heads.

Though the fellowship was outnumbered more than ten to one, they had a good position and held off the bulk of the force for several tense minutes. The woman's blades flashed furiously as she killed without mercy, but not without regret. Breaking one of her shortswords inside the body of an orc of the Red Eye, she used her free arm to stun. Knocking one Uruk momentarily senseless with an elbow to the face, she drew back her sword and would have plunged it straight between his eyes, had she not recognized him.

Halting her thrust, she cried in shock, "Kaanurz?"

He grabbed her wrist and clutched the front of her hauberk. "Always a pleasure, my lady," he growled. Then he dragged her out of the hollow.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled, digging her heels in. She backhanded the Uruk with her free hand, but he only grinned. The other Uruk-hai and orcs in the gully didn't seem bothered by her extraction, and concentrated on the other defenders.

Once he had her out in the open, he let go and stepped aside. Her gaze flicked around in a panic; she had now lost both her swords and was standing in the middle of a hundred battle-crazed Uruk-hai and orcs. Death seemed certain and uncomfortably close. She glared at her betrayer, a scathing remark ready for launch.

"Branwen!" a voice roared. Whirling, her eyes followed the sound. Up the rise, vigorously alive and formidable as always, she beheld the Uruk captain, his hooked sword in his hand, striding grimly toward her.

Something snapped inside her, and she took off at a run. Closing the distance between them, dodging the Uruk-hai moving to shield their captain from this apparent attack, she launched herself at him.

In the hollow, the fellowship gradually realized that the assault was falling away as the orcs were distracted by something behind them. It was only then they realized the woman was missing.

Alarmed and wary, they followed the orcs up the gully. What they saw was a vision of madness that shocked them to the core.

The woman was in the embrace of an Uruk, holding him tightly against her as she kissed him passionately. They were on their knees and surrounded by the shocked faces of a hundred orcs. Well, ninety-nine shocked faces; at least one had a look of relief on his. Glancing at the fellowship, he walked over.

"Now _that_ is how you bring down an Uruk," he said. "I wonder that you whiteskins did not think of it before."


	7. Madness Takes Its Toll

Chuckling to himself, the Uruk stood in front of Aragorn. "Don't mind them," he said, jerking a clawed thumb behind him. "They've been trying to keep their hands off each other for years." Snorting, he glanced back at his captain and grinned broadly. "Bound to give in sooner or later."

Turning back to the horrified group, he continued, "I am Kaanurz. You are...?"

"Aragorn," one of the men said automatically. He hesitantly accepted the Uruk's hand. "Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas." Nodding toward the hobbits, he said, "Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took."

The Uruk let out a low whistle. "You know Saruman sent us after them, don't you?"

"Branwen said as much," Boromir replied. He glared at the Uruk, which didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.

"Hmm, well, she would know. Smart one, that woman. Wonder what'll happen next." Again, he looked at the Uruk and the woman. They showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. "She does strange things to him," Kaanurz commented absently. "Every time he sees her, we get some kind of restriction. First it was human females – can't touch'em, can't even look at'em – then he wouldn't let us kill _anyone_ who wasn't trying to kill us first. Last time, he had us saving humans from trolls, can you believe it?" He glanced at the fellowship, then snorted. "Wish they'd just fuck and get it over with. I'm starving."

An Uruk nearby laughed. "Do you think they will?"

The corporal shrugged. "I wouldn't bet on it. She's a lady. She'll wait till they're alone, then she'll do him up proper. At least, I think so." Glancing at the pair, he noted the captain's clawed hands gripping her clothes as though he meant to tear them off. Sighing deeply, he made a gesture like he was rolling up his sleeves. "Better step in or she'll never forgive me."

Bending over his captain, he said in a low voice, "Mind if I cut in?" The only response he received was a punch to the face; the Uruk captain didn't even break off from the kiss. Glancing back at the alarmed fellowship, Kaanurz tried again. "Look, uh, Gokh, you've stopped the entire force in its tracks. Everyone's watching. _Everyone_."

Gradually, his words sunk in, and Gokh pulled back from her a few inches. Then he looked around. The only sound was of birds tentatively calling to one another. All around were Uruk-hai and orcs, staring in disbelief. The woman was now resting her head on his shoulder, eyes closed in contentment. She clearly didn't give a damn about anything else. Reluctantly, he rose, lifting her to her feet as he did so.

"So," Kaanurz said casually. "Now what?"

Gokh looked at Branwen questioningly. "I will do whatever pleases you."

"Even disobey an order?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Snorting with amusement, he said, "No one would be surprised if I did."

"Wait a moment," a gravelly voice said. The commander of the Red Eye approached, appraising her, eyes narrowed. Sensing something changing, the fellowship closed in as well, hands on their swords.

"What now, Grishnaakh?" the captain growled impatiently. The orc ignored him.

"Tell me, woman," he hissed, "the name of the Black Uruk who fell in the Great Siege." She looked at him in surprise, even fear.

"What sort of question is that?" Kaanurz snapped. "That was thousands of years ago. She's _human_ , you imbecile."

"Shut your mouth, _pizgal_. If she is who I think she is, she will know," Grishnaakh snarled. Turning back to her, he said, "You know who I speak of."

"Grishduf," she said miserably, and bowed her head.

The orc commander looked awed. "You are _Grishhûnhul_ ," he whispered. Turning to the orcs surrounding them, he raised his blade above his head in triumph and shouted, _"Grishhûnhul_!" With a great clatter of weapons, the entire force of orcs under Sauron's banner dropped to one knee and bowed their heads respectfully.

"What is this?" Gokh said, alarmed.

"She is _Grishhûnhul_ ," Grishnaakh replied. "Don't tell me you have never heard of her."

"Why should I?" he snarled. "I have known her for years. What is this ' _Grishhûnhul_ ' nonsense?"

The orc turned to her. "Tell him of Grishduf," he commanded gruffly, then softened a little. "Please."

"Um," she said awkwardly, glancing at Gokh. All eyes, even those of the kneeling orcs, were on her. "I don't know why you're all...like this. It was ages ago, I can't believe anyone even remembers...I mean, he died. How _could_ you know?"

Grishnaakh touched her arm. "He lived just long enough to tell of you."

Drawing a shuddering breath, she began. "I was watching the battle unfold, as I had been assigned by my Master. Recording the event. Before Sauron entered the field, he sent his elite forces in. They pushed back the Alliance fighters, but the effort took its toll. I was close enough to the fighting that a Black Uruk fell right beside where I hid." She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, collecting herself. She hadn't thought about the siege in years, had buried the memory deeply.

"He was badly wounded," she recalled, drifting back in her thoughts to that day. "An elf had buried a hand ax in his chest, but it didn't kill him right away. The elf left him to die. Things were quiet there for a moment, so I...I dragged him to where I was hiding." Grief assailed her; it was almost as if she were back on the Plateau of Gorgoroth. "I tried so hard to help him," she sobbed, tears flowing down her cheeks. "He was...drowning in his own blood. I could do nothing." She sank to the ground, unable to go on. Gokh dropped to one knee and embraced her. She gripped him tightly, spending her grief on his shoulder.

"She cleaved to him, shielding him when Sauron fell that day," Grishnaakh continued, gazing at her reverently. "Grishduf said she disappeared in a golden light, her tears wet on his face, the taste of her on his lips. She could not restore his life; she gave what comfort she was able." Bowing his head with respect, he finished, "Orcs across the land have heard of _Grishhûnhul_. She has appeared when our need is greatest, and given aid." Turning to Gokh, he said, "She has helped you, has she not?"

"Caused me trouble, more like," the captain grumbled. Regarding the orcs still bowing before her, he said, "I have not heard of this."

Grishnaakh snorted with disdain. "You are Isengarders. Your 'master' shields you from your cousins, keeps you from learning our ways. Makes you feel superior." There were years of bitterness in his words. "We know her by her way with us; she has no fear of orcs, as other human females do. She has been known to lie with us on rare occasions." He bowed to Gokh with grudging respect. "One thing is known; if she leads, we follow."

"What are you saying?" Aragorn said, stepping forward. It had taken him a long time to overcome his instinctive revulsion of these creatures. He chose to ignore for the moment what he would consider an unforgivable insult to her honor.

The orc turned to him. "Exactly what I said. We will follow her."

"You'll turn against Sauron?" Boromir asked incredulously. "For _her_?" He gestured at Branwen, sitting on the ground, her head bowed in grief. She seemed not to be listening to what was said. The Uruk captain still knelt with an arm around her shoulders. He glared maliciously at the man from Gondor.

Grishnaakh looked around at the orcs. They all nodded. "Yes, human. If she wills it, we will abandon Sauron and fight under her banner."

"Will others do the same?" Aragorn pressed, a spark of an idea coming to him.

"All who know of _Grishhûnhul_ will rally to her, yes." The orc grinned, showing his rotten, jagged teeth. "Especially the Black Uruks guarding his tower. Their loyalty to her is far greater than ours."

Exchanging glances with the other members of the fellowship, Aragorn knelt before her. "Branwen," he said gently. She slowly looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet. "Can you lead them?"

She grimaced. "I will not let them be used."

He shook his head. "Not used. Will you help us form an alliance...with the orcs?" It wasn't an easy thing for him to ask.

"What will you give them in return for this...alliance? How will they benefit from serving your cause?"

"It is their cause as well," Aragorn insisted. "They have been slaves to the powerful for hundreds, thousands of years. Would they not benefit from being freed from that yoke?"

"Choice," she said quietly. "They would have a choice in whom they serve; orcs or Maiar."

Aragorn frowned. "Who are Maiar?"

"Sauron, Saruman, Gandalf," she said dully. Rising with difficulty, she turned to Grishnaakh. "We can't negotiate an alliance here, without any authorities to agree on terms. We should go to Rohan, appeal to King Theoden..."

"Wait, you're serious?" Boromir cried with alarm. "She ruts with an orc and we lay down our arms, just like that?"

Gokh stood threateningly close to him. "Do not insult her. You will hold your tongue or I will pull your guts out and feed them to you."

"I have fought your kind for _years_ ," Boromir snarled, hand going to his sword hilt. "Your threats are meaningless."

"Stop acting like idiots," Branwen snapped, pushing them apart. "There will never be peace if you argue like spoiled children."

"I agree with Boromir," Gimli said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. "We've no reason to trust anything they say. No treaty or agreement they sign would be honored. They would cut our throats the moment we turned our backs on them."

" _We_ would honor an agreement," Gokh snarled. "The Uruk-hai keep their word." He looked significantly at the orcs of Mordor.

"You think we do not?" Grishnaakh roared. The two commanders advanced on one another, chests nearly touching. Gokh stared down the much shorter Grishnaakh, lips curling with malice.

"For crying out loud," the woman muttered as she parted the angry orcs, battering both their chests to put more space between them. "You're both orcs, act like it! It is no wonder you are so easily beaten when you fight among yourselves for so little reason. Do you want to be wiped off the face of the earth? Do you _want_ your race to be remembered in stories only, monsters whose only purpose is to give the hero something to valiantly kill? Where is your _pride_?" Grimacing at them in disgust, she addressed Grishnaakh mercilessly. "You speak of unity among your kind, that all of the orcs will march as one under my banner. _They_ are orcs as well," she cried, throwing her hand out toward the Uruk-hai. "If you do not start by embracing them as your cousins, your _brothers_ , you will fail before you begin."

"As _Grishhûnhul_ wishes," Grishnaakh said, bowing humbly.

" _No_ ," she cried, even angrier. "As the orcs wish, or not at all. I will not always be here to knock sense into you. It begins _now_. You will sustain it yourselves by accepting your differences, for they make you each strong." Glaring at the two leaders, she folded her arms over her chest and stared them down fiercely until they relented.

Kaanurz let out the breath he'd been holding for almost a minute as Gokh and Grishnaakh nodded stiffly to one another. It was about as close as they would come to shaking hands as men did to seal an agreement, but it was enough. Leaning toward Boromir, he muttered, "She could kill with a glance, that one." Boromir shot him a disgusted look and moved away. Shrugging, Kaanurz grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pizgal = military rank of corporal  
> Grishhûnhul = "[The] Bleeding Heart"; literally, "blood flowing from the heart"


	8. Unlikely Allies

Tensions ran high in Edoras after the Uruk-hai and the orcs of Mordor set up their camp outside the walls. The corporal had never seen his comrades, or the handful of troops under his command, on edge to this degree. Bad enough they had to share camp space with a load of _snaga_ from Mordor, but to sleep in the shadow of a great fortress full of men on top of it...

The captain of the Uruk-hai seemed oblivious. Grunting with mirth as he chewed a strip of dried meat, Kaanurz recalled how the stoic, serious captain had been completely unmade by that woman. Dragging her out of her defensive position was not an act he would have gotten away with had she not recognized him and stayed her sword. The corporal felt a shiver, thinking about the passionate embrace his old friend had shared with the woman in their reunion, right there in front of over a hundred orcs.

There was a woman here who caught his eye. Leanna, he heard her called. Though her face was filled with horror when she saw the orcs approach, he still thought her fair. If he could share with her what his captain had with Branwen, he would be one happy Uruk. Grimacing, he tossed the scrap into the campfire, his appetite lost. It would take a lot of ale to blind her to his bestial face, clawed hands, dark skin...

Restless now, Kaanurz got up and walked around the camp. Here and there, groups of Uruk-hai and orcs sat around small fires, listening to the tales of Branwen, only the Mordor orcs called her _Grishhûnhul._ He shook his head in wonderment at the irony, that the woman he thought he knew so well was a figure out of legend, so beloved by orcs that they eagerly laid down their weapons and agreed to talk peace with Men. The Uruk-hai were only beginning to hear these tales, but already many of them were of the same mind. The fact that she also looked on their commander with affection further impressed them.

"Where do you think _you're_ going, orc?" a harsh human voice growled out of the darkness. Kaanurz looked up in surprise; his wanderings had taken him outside the camp.

Forcing himself to seem at his ease, he replied, "Just having a stroll. Fine country you have here. Very green."

"You're supposed to stay in the camp." The owner of the voice approached, and Kaanurz could dimly see that it was some kind of soldier. He had a hard time identifying ranks in the human military, but this was probably a _pizurk_ , in which case Kaanurz outranked him.

"Last I heard, we were not prisoners." Curling his lip and baring his teeth at the human, Kaanurz said, "We can go where we wish."

"My orders are to keep your filth outside the walls," the soldier snapped. "That means you'd best turn around and go back where you came from."

Raising an eyebrow, the corporal said, "Oh, if it's our _filth_ you keep out, then I'll try not to shit on your king's feet when I see him."

That pretty much did it; the soldier was ordered not to kill these creatures, but there was no rule against beating them to a pulp. Throwing down his halberd, the man went for the Uruk's throat. Kaanurz, amused by this turn of events, eagerly engaged the soldier. This would be more fun than brooding in his tent.

The corporal was broader, more muscular, stronger, and nearly immune to the comparatively feeble blows of the human soldier. It didn't take much for him to come out on top and pummel the man senseless. Because Kaanurz had received similar orders, he restrained the urge to kill, leaving the man unconscious on the ground. Flexing his shoulders, he continued on his way.

Drinking in the moonlight, Kaanurz was looking up at the stars when a darting figure flew out of the darkness and collided with him. Taken completely by surprise, the corporal lost his balance, grabbed instinctively at what hit him, and fell over backwards. The figure struggled on top of him, but he held on, though he couldn't see properly; whoever it was, their hair was long and covered his face, blinding him.

"Let me go! Please!" a tense, female voice begged. He let go, and she tumbled off him. It was Leanna.

He stayed on the ground, leaning back on his elbows, and looked at her with amusement. "A pleasure to see you again, my lady," he said softly. "We should not meet this way again; people will talk."

Staring at him aghast, her pale hand went to the neckline of her dress, perhaps to make sure that she was still covered. "You have seen me before?" she said breathlessly, terrified but curious.

Kaanurz nodded. "As we passed through your village on the way to our elegant accommodations," he said, gesturing toward the encampment. "By the look on your face, you hoped we would be consumed in a flaming abyss. I was enchanted."

Springing lightly to his feet, he grinned at her. She backed away a step, but did not flee.

"So," he began conversationally, "what brings you out on this fine night?"

She blinked at him, frowning. "You speak...well. Not like I expected."

Leaning toward her, he whispered conspiratorially, "I'm not like the others." Looking around to make sure none heard him, he went on, "I spy on humans. Learn their manner of speech. Among other things."

"What other things?" she asked just as quietly.

Kaanurz liked her more with each passing moment. She did not retreat from him in disgust or fear. It was quite compelling.

"I have seen...," he said, then paused. Perhaps it wouldn't be prudent to reveal the intimacies he had witnessed. She might not be impressed by that. Funny thing, though – he couldn't think of anything he'd seen that _didn't_ involve sex at the moment.

He was saved from having to make something up by the approach of his captain.

"Kaanurz!" the Uruk barked. "Stop bothering the lady and get back to camp."

"Yes, sir," he replied. Looking past Gokh, he noted the marked absence of Branwen. "Where's your better half? Tired of you already?"

The captain growled so menacingly that Leanna ran away in fear, disappearing in the shadows. The corporal hungrily watched her departing figure.

"Mind yourself," the captain warned. "You are not likely to attract a mate here."

"All I ask for is a female who doesn't puke when she looks at me," Kaanurz replied with a sigh. The two Uruk-hai turned back toward camp. "At least she let me get a few words out before you scared her away."

"Yes, I heard," Gokh said, chuckling. "About to tell her you watch humans fucking. Not a good idea."

"I stopped myself," the corporal said defensively. "So where _is_ she?"

"Holed up somewhere in Edoras," Gokh answered. "She thought it would be 'unseemly' if she were seen entering my tent."

"Hmph," Kaanurz said. "Like being seen sucking your face wasn't. What was she doing to you, anyway?"

"She called it 'kissing'," Gokh replied. "It's very pleasant; you should try it."

"I'll mention it to Leanna. I'm sure she'll be happy to demonstrate."

Gokh laughed. "Haven't you seen humans do it?"

"Many times," he said with a shrug. "Doesn't mean I knew what they were doing. Always seemed to come before the mating, though."

"I can understand that," the captain replied, his thoughts returning to that moment. It had certainly aroused _him._

"So she has kissed you," Kaanurz said. "That was days ago. Has she still not taken you to her bed?"

The captain growled a warning, then relented. "No."

"You should wash," the corporal advised.

"I have," Gokh said, then stopped. Kaanurz noted the sudden tension and frustration in his old friend's face. "She will not have me, no matter what I do. Says the time is not right, that she is not ready."

The corporal shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Still bound by your stupid promise. If you were more of an orc, you wouldn't have said it in the first place, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I do not know why I said it," Gokh snarled. "But if I had not, if I had taken what I wanted from the first..."

"Then you never would have seen her again," Kaanurz finished sympathetically. "You, my friend, are in love with her. Or so our human friends would say."

"What is 'love'?" the captain asked.

"I am not sure. It seems to be something humans feel for one another, particularly between mates. I have seen them do all kinds of ridiculous things and say it is done for love. What I _have_ seen is the soppy looks of a man in love with a woman who denies him, and that's all over your face right now."

"Why I do not kill you, or at the very least rip out your tongue, is beyond my understanding," Gokh said, glaring at the corporal.

"I amuse you," Kaanurz said with a grin. "So she is not 'ready' for you; what the hell does that mean?"

"I have no idea," the captain said angrily. "She had no trouble spreading her legs for an Uruk berserker once; why _I_ am such a challenge is a mystery."

"What did you say?" Kaanurz gasped in shock.

"You heard me."

"A _berserker_?" the corporal whispered, as if saying it too loudly would bring one running. "What in the nine hells did she want with one of those monsters?"

Snorting, Gokh said, "You have to ask?"

Recovering slightly, Kaanurz said, "Well, that's interesting. I never would have guessed it of her. I wonder if the beast is still alive. I want to ask him a few questions. I mean, if something as cursed ugly as one of those things could get a human female on her back, there's hope for all of us, isn't there?"

"Hmph, I doubt it. No hope for you, anyway," Gokh said.

"Now you insult me," Kaanurz said with mock dismay. "Still, you managed it. I suppose that's something."

"She's not on her back yet," Gokh clarified. "But...she...touches me."

Leering, the corporal said, "Touches you where?"

Glaring in reply, the captain kept his silence.

"Your cock?"

"Leave it!" Gokh hissed angrily. But again, his fury subsided. "No. I mean, she just...touches me. When she walks by, she'll touch my arm. She does not mind if I return such gestures."

The two parted and went to their respective tents. In the morning, they would break camp and march west, back toward Isengard. There was an army to stop. The thought of facing a general like Gothmatum with the prospect of a peaceful alliance made Gokh shudder on his pallet. Grimacing, he anticipated getting hauled to the post for such a suggestion. Just when his flesh was healing from the last flogging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pizurk = military rank of private


	9. Stopping the Unstoppable

Dawn broke over Edoras, and with it came the sounds of a vast army preparing to march. Gokh had barely slept, his thoughts plagued by Branwen, so he was up and issuing orders before the human messenger informed him of the king's desire to see him and the other leader. Assigning duties to his sergeants, he stomped out of the camp and up the hill to the Golden Hall, Grishnaakh at his side. Behind them were Kaanurz and some squat, toady fellow in Grishnaakh's inner circle. A troop of guards met them at the gate and escorted them the rest of the way.

The fellowship was already in counsel with Theoden when the orcs arrived. The king was looking much more hale and hearty now that the sniveling little pig, Wormtongue, had been forcibly ejected the day before. Gokh had taken great pleasure in declaring him a servant of Saruman before the assemblage, bearing witness to the many times he had seen the advisor feeding information to the wizard. It wasn't quite sufficient to repay the worm for the insults and mockery leveled at the Uruk at every encounter, but it would do for now.

Bowing slightly to the king, the four orcs stood silently, waiting for the purpose of this meeting to be revealed.

Theoden turned to them and said, "We are debating how to go about meeting the Uruk-hai force. What are your suggestions?"

"Throwing a woman at them might work," Kaanurz said. "It brought Gokh to his knees."

Angry, Gokh cuffed the side of the corporal's head. "Be serious, _flâgît_." Turning back to the king, he said, "The Uruk-hai will attack if they see horsemen coming. You will need to let us lead. Grishnaakh and I will meet the generals." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Maybe they will listen."

"You do not seem very confident," Aragorn observed.

"There are a couple of generals who aren't particularly fond of him," Kaanurz supplied helpfully. "Use him as a punching bag mostly. If they won't listen, you can still fling women at them. I suggest at least one each; such courtesies are expected."

The captain backhanded his corporal across the mouth this time. "When will you learn to shut the fuck up?" Gokh snarled. "Apologies, lord."

"Well, he's half right," Branwen said. "I should also be seen. Perhaps they will be curious enough to find out why a woman rides with the Uruk-hai. It might keep the archers from loosing their arrows."

"Just so," Gokh agreed. "If we are mounted as well, the force will move quicker."

"Speed is essential," Theoden said. "I have sent word to Erkenbrand to pull back from the Isen. He will take his force to the Hornburg, but if we do not intercept the army before they reach him, he will be hard pressed." The king took a deep breath, shaking his head. "I never thought I would allow orcs to ride our horses."

"We will take care of them," Gokh reassured him. "None will harm the beasts."

"Do you even know how to ride?" Boromir asked. The orcs shook their heads. Rolling his eyes, the man of Gondor said, "This will be a long march."

Assembling enough horses for each Uruk and orc was a challenge that took several hours, but at last all were mounted and ready to depart. Only a few of the smaller orcs from Mordor had ever ridden anything, and those had been wargs. Horses were much taller, and these at least were loathe to bear them. Several orcs were bitten and kicked before ever reaching the saddle, and more were immediately thrown off when they did. Men were obliged to sooth and calm the horses for the orcs, an irony that was not lost on them.

Finally, the combined forces departed. Kaanurz searched the faces of the people gathered to watch them go, but could not find Leanna among them. Just as well. He didn't think it would impress her to see how awkwardly he sat the horse.

Once they were all out on the plains of Rohan, the men took the lead and urged their horses to break into a controlled run. The orcs clung to their mounts like burrs as their horses followed suit.

Branwen and Gokh rode in front with the fellowship and the king. Grishnaakh stayed back with the other orcs. Reunited with the fellowship was Gandalf; ever since rejoining them on the way to Edoras, the wizard had watched her carefully. Branwen wasn't sure what caused him to suddenly be so wary of her; the affection all could sense between her and the Uruk captain, or something he had learned in his absence since battling the balrog. His tale had implied time spent among the Valar before returning to Arda; she wondered which ones, and what they had told him.

As the sun began to descend before them, scouts returned to report a great host of Uruk-hai approaching. Theoden issued orders, and the mounted force shifted. With difficulty, the Uruk-hai and orcs guided their reluctant mounts to the front. Slowing to a walk, they advanced at a nearly leisurely pace.

Kaanurz rode next to Gokh. Between Gokh and Grishnaakh, Branwen kept pace, a grim expression on her face. Arrayed behind them were the Uruk-hai and orcs, then row upon row of men. The corporal wished he could see them from the front; it must be quite impressive.

The first hint of the Uruk-hai army was the great cloud of dust kicked up by their marching feet. It stretched across the horizon for at least a mile. Kaanurz swallowed hard; even though they were his own kind, and he was fairly certain they wouldn't kill him or Gokh's meager company, there was no guarantee of that. They had probably committed some sort of crime, broken an unspoken law by treating with humans. If things went badly, orcs or no orcs, they would be slaughtered along with the horse lords.

Time wasn't moving particularly fast. It seemed to take hours for the Uruk-hai army to come close enough to make out any details of the front ranks. Even at this distance, though, Gokh could see them looking at one another, pointing at the advancing mixed force, faltering, confused. Holding up his gloved hand, the captain halted the advance. He closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. Then he urged his horse forward. Grishnaakh, Branwen, Kaanurz, and two dozen other Uruk-hai and orcs selected earlier followed.

Dread filled Gokh as they approached. He could see a contingent of Uruk officers coming to meet them. Even from this distance, Gothmatum's formidable bulk was easily identified. Sensing that the captain faltered, Branwen reached out and touched his arm gently. "I am with you," she said softly. He nodded, but could find no words to say.

The two parties halted several yards apart. Gokh's group dismounted. Before he could say anything, Branwen strode boldly up to the stern generals, Grishnaakh hobbling at her side.

"Greetings, Gothmatum," she said, extending a hand. "I believe we've met."

"Branwen," the general acknowledged. He took her small, pale hand in his huge dark one and pumped it once. "Explain," he growled, turning to Gokh.

"I lead them, _maugoth_ ," the woman said. "We want to discuss terms." Brow lifting with surprise, the Uruk general laughed. "Terms of peace, not surrender," she clarified. This silenced him. "I am held in some esteem by the orcs of Mordor. They call me _Grishhûnhul_. Does that name mean anything to you?"

A strange expression came to the general's face. It was clear he had heard the name before. "How is this possible? _Grishhûnhul_ is a legend. What have you done to earn the title?"

"It is not her title," Grishnaakh growled. "She _is_ _Grishhûnhul_. Walking among us as she has always done."

"What proof have you that she is the same?" Gothmatum demanded.

"Is it not obvious?" the commander of the Red Eye replied. "She has no fear."

"Then she is a fool, not a legend," he sneered.

"She lies with your _pizdur_ ," Grishnaakh added, pointing at Gokh.

Gothmatum looked hard at the woman, noting how her cheeks colored slightly. "Is this true?"

Holding her head up with dignity, she nodded. Gokh shifted uncomfortably, but kept his mouth shut. Perhaps the lie would aid their cause.

"Of all the Uruk-hai who would gladly fuck her," the general rumbled, glaring at the captain, "she chooses you. She _is_ a fool."

"Mind your tongue, Gothmatum," she snarled. "I serve one greater than you, greater than Saruman, greater even than Sauron himself. This Uruk was chosen _by him_."

"Whom do you serve?" the general retorted. "Who is greater than all these?"

"Morgoth," she hissed. The Uruk general's eyes widened in shock. Gokh shot her an equally dumbfounded look. Satisfied with the general's reaction, she addressed the other generals. "It is his will that you lay down your arms and make peace with Men. There is a greater enemy to fight, one that has held you under its boot for thousands of years. You live in squalor, scraping an existence in what lands you are allowed, driven from your homes when men will it. You serve the ends of fallen _Maiar_ like Sauron and now Saruman. Your destiny is not your own; you are born, live, and die at the whims of your masters, who use you as weapons against their foes, and shed no tear when you fall. I have watched you grow and evolve over the millennia; orc tribes such as those Grishnaakh knows have communities, traditions, tales told to the young. All of this is frequently stripped away from them when a dark lord rises and calls them to arms. If it is not a master who robs them of their lives, it is Men wishing to retake lands they had no interest in until they learned orcs lived on it. But you, the Uruk-hai, are the most abused of all orcs I have ever seen." She closed her eyes for a moment and gathered her thoughts.

"Saruman bred you in violence; Dunlending women raped by great orcs. Only males wrought of these foul unions were spared; females were slain and eaten, fed to their fathers as a treat. Suckling babes are no use to him. The males were brought to Saruman and he used his dark magics to age them quickly. You were trained for war; what would normally take years to learn, Saruman instilled through magic, so you could speak a common language, follow orders, obey like the slaves you are."

"How do you know this?" Gothmatum asked quietly. What she said was news to him, and by the looks on the faces of the other generals, it was also unknown to them.

"My master is powerful; if it serves his purpose, he can place me anywhere, anytime. I have been in Orthanc; I have read Saruman's diaries and journals." Taking a shuddering breath and grimacing with the distasteful memory, she said, "And I have seen where he breeds Uruk-hai."

"So...," the general said, "You say we are abused, but I do not see how."

"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "You only know war. What happens to the Uruk-hai when the battles are all fought, and the war is over? You have no other skills. You haven't any females of your own kind to mate with, for Saruman did not wish your population to expand beyond his control. I daresay you're far too dangerous to Saruman for him to let you loose. He would likely kill you all rather than wait for idleness to make you turn against him. His notes have hinted as much. If that is not enough for you, then reflect on this. You are young, all of you. Wisdom comes with age and experience; though you are intelligent, you lack such wisdom as would make you truly formidable because you simply have not lived long enough. Grishnaakh," she said, turning to the stooped figure beside her. "Tell him how old you are."

"I have known five hundred and forty-seven summers, _Grishhûnhul_." He bowed to her.

"And you," she said, pointing to another orc. He disclosed the three hundred and thirty-two summers that had passed since his birth. All along the line, the seven orcs gave their ages when asked, ranging from twenty-nine to a venerable two thousand.

"How old are you, Gothmatum?" she asked.

Snarling, he replied, "Twelve summers."

"To a man, you would barely be allowed to fight, much less lead an army. Do not take offense; you have been robbed of your childhood, living it as an adult, torn between your true age and what Saruman has done to your bodies, your minds. Grishnaakh," she said again. "Tell him what you were doing at twelve."

Chuckling at the memory, the orc said, "Learning to swim in the Anduin River; I was never very good at it. Helping my mother raise my sister; men had crippled her in a raid on our village. She could not get around as she used to. My father was slain by them. My brother took his place as head of the family."

"Do you hear what he is saying?" the woman asked softly, looking at each general in turn. "He had a mother, a father, siblings. He lived in a village. He has known a family and a life that, sometimes, was without violence, giving him time to swim in a river. You had none of that, nor will you. It was taken from you, and you never knew it was lost."

"How does surrender to the humans give us back what you say we have lost?" the general roared. The tone of his voice, however, betrayed a degree of longing.

Reaching out, she rested her hand on his shoulder. "Not surrender, _maugoth_. Alliance. Throw off Saruman's yoke, rise up and fight beside men in this war against Sauron. If you stand shoulder to shoulder with men, you will both benefit from the bond that battle forges. Soldiers become brothers, and brothers stand together."

The generals exchanged glances. Branwen held her breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flâgît – idiot  
> Maugoth – military rank of general  
> Pizdur – military rank of captain


	10. Women and Orcs

Branwen sat in front of her own little campfire, breaking off small pieces of a twig and tossing them into the flames one by one. Talks with the Uruk-hai generals weren't always calm or productive, but were at least devoid of bloodshed so far. The two armies had camped with a hundred yards of empty plains between them, as sort of a neutral zone. In the center of this place, a large fire was built. Around this fire, the Uruk generals negotiated for hours with the king of Rohan and the various lords of the Riddermark who had eventually arrived. Meals were served there, for the parties began talking at dawn and did not break up the discussions until late into the night. They had been at it for days.

All the while, the Uruk army churned and fretted, wanting to understand the delay when the enemy was _right there_. They were not prepared for an extended period in camp; Saruman had sent them from Isengard with barely a day's rations each. Branwen organized hunting parties comprised of men and Uruk-hai to keep the two armies from doing something foolish out of hunger. So far, it was working; the parties changed each time, and the experience was starting to create a tenuous camaraderie between the races.

Today's foray was led by Boromir and Gokh, two warriors whose interactions were abrasive at best. Branwen hardly blamed them; Boromir was from Gondor, situated nearly on Sauron's doorstep. Killing orcs was practically routine. Gokh was...well, he was an orc. Killing humans was what he was bred for. He didn't know any other way to behave. It was a struggle for both of them.

"Thought I'd find you here." The gruff voice broke into her thoughts and she looked up. It was the corporal, Gokh's oldest friend.

"Join me, Kaanurz," she said, patting the log beside her.

The Uruk sat down and stared into the fire for several moments before speaking. "Any sign of them? I'm starving."

"Hmph. When are you not?" she said, but smiled. "I expect they'll be along soon. Hopefully without casualties."

The corporal chuckled. "Gokh was not happy when you sent him with that human."

"Nor was the human. I'm tired of the constant bickering. It's bad enough I have to listen to it all day long between the generals and the king." Throwing the last bit of stick into the fire, she growled, "Maybe they'll just kill each other and be done with it."

"Tell me something," Kaanurz said, "and I'm asking for myself, not him. Why won't you do what you said has already been done? Why will you not take him to your bed?" She was silent for several moments. "If I offend..."

"No, you do not," she finally said, sighing. "It is...complicated."

"He said you did not hesitate to lie with a berserker," the corporal said, looking at her. "Gokh is considerably better looking and certainly cleaner. Why do you deny him?"

"He told you that, did he?" she replied. "He does not know all. I _did_ hesitate. I had no intention of granting such a boon. But things...happened." She shrugged. "I am not proud of it."

"Intended or not, Gokh thinks that you value him less than that berserker," Kaanurz said quietly.

"That is not true," Branwen said. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I care for him. I suppose I have for years. As furious as he has made me, he has touched my heart as well. He is honorable, brave, intelligent, fiercely loyal to the Uruk-hai he commands...at times, he shows his sense of humor, though that doesn't happen often."

"No, it does not," Kaanurz agreed with an amused grunt. "Makes him all the easier to taunt, though. If he has such admirable qualities, what stops you?"

"Fear," she said simply, bowing her head.

"You? Afraid of him?" The corporal was incredulous. "I have seen you brought to your lowest point by cruel men and at the mercy of trolls, without breaking a sweat. Gokh is not nearly as threatening." Raising his head in consideration for a moment, he amended, "Well, not threatening to you, at any rate."

"It is not fear of _him_ , specifically," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "My master...his decisions brook no argument. If he chooses to recall me, I go. I have never felt such...attachment...as I do for Gokh, but I fear it will be in vain. I resist my master's will as much as Gokh's, as much as my own, in this matter, for Melkor wanted us to care for one another. For some reason, he felt it was important to this effort."

"I am trying to understand, and failing," Kaanurz said with a sigh. "If you want him, you should take him. What does it matter if you are gone tomorrow or the next day or the next year? You could die tomorrow too. It is the same thing."

Branwen sat in silence for several minutes, watching the flames. Her gut reaction, she realized, was to dismiss Kaanurz's words. She believed him too young, too inexperienced to understand. But worse than that, she would disregard him because he was an orc. After all these years, to still harbor the prejudices of her people... The thought filled her with shame.

"I have been...foolish," she finally said. "You are wise, Kaanurz. Every breath I take could be my last; the same could be said of him. I should not keep him at arm's length out of fear of losing him, or I shall, by other hands than Melkor's." Meeting the Uruk's golden eyes, she said, "Thank you, my friend." Leaning over, she kissed his cheek.

"Ah, my lady, do not tempt me," he said, bowing his head with a smile. "My heart belongs to another. I do not think she will understand."

Laughing, she said, "Who has stolen the heart of the mighty Kaanurz?"

"She is called Leanna," the Uruk said wistfully, staring into the wavering air above the flames.

"Hmm, I think I know this one," Branwen said. "She is...different. Raised to hate orcs she may be, but she has an adventurous spirit, quite like Eowyn, the king's niece. I would not be shocked to learn she was among the Rohirrim at this moment, dressed as a man. Eowyn certainly is."

"Truly?" Kaanurz said hopefully. "Perhaps I should wander among the humans a bit and see if I can find her."

"If she is there, you will find her," she replied with a grin, tapping the side of her nose. "I have full confidence in an Uruk's nose for finding what he wants."

The haunch of an aurochs suddenly landed in front of them.

"I leave for five minutes and you are already sniffing around my woman," Gokh snarled without heat.

"The poor thing is hungry for attention, you selfish bastard," Kaanurz retorted with a grin. Rising, he bowed to Branwen and retired. Gokh took the corporal's place on the log beside her and began cutting strips of meat off the haunch.

"I trust everyone returned relatively unscathed," Branwen said mildly, watching him work. His hands deftly manipulated the knife.

"Unfortunately, yes," he growled. "Boromir tried very hard to make me kill him several times, but I resisted."

"Admirable of you. I'm sure his father will be pleased." She barely suppressed a laugh.

"He is a good hunter," Gokh grudgingly allowed. "These are not his lands, but he did well."

Branwen stood up, coming to a decision. "When you are finished, I would like to speak with you. In my tent." Without looking at him, she turned and left. The Uruk merely raised an eyebrow, barely curious.

Relations between the men and the Uruk-hai had improved since Edoras, so Kaanurz was able to follow his nose into the human camp without causing much concern. Several men who had hunted with him the day before, or marched alongside him on the way to this place, nodded in recognition as he passed. Turning his attention fully to the array of odors that surrounded him, he concentrated on the brief whiff of Leanna he had taken when she literally knocked him on his ass a few days ago. Within a half hour, he was rewarded with the faintest hint of her. Branwen had been right; the woman _was_ here.

Grinning, he homed in on the scent. Eventually he found her off by herself, sitting outside a tent sharpening a dagger. Even in the guise of a man, he could sense the woman underneath. He was strangely excited by her duplicity.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I have something of yours," he said, approaching her. She started, looking at him with alarm. Grinning, he sat across from her. "It is my heart," he whispered.

Her eyes widened. Struck speechless, she could not formulate a response. Kaanurz, never at a loss, filled the silence with quiet words.

"You may have fooled your people, but you cannot deceive me. You are Leanna." Pausing, he glanced around, making sure they were not attracting too much attention. "You need not fear; your secret is safe with me. My captain's love is a female who has led armies; such strength is admired." He inclined his head respectfully.

Finding her voice, Leanna said, "How did you find me?"

He tapped his nose as Branwen had done. "I never forget a scent. So tell me; why do you hide?"

"It is not acceptable for women to go to war," she said quietly, looking away.

Kaanurz raised an eyebrow. "Yet you are trained to fight. Why teach you such skills if you are not expected to use them?"

She shrugged. "It has always been so. We are meant to defend our homes only if men are not able."

"Hmmm. Defense against us, no doubt," he said ruefully. "That, too, has always been so. Men have fought orcs, and orcs have fought men. Yet here we are, side by side, sharing meat and drink, talking about orc settlements in Rohan. A month ago, none could have foreseen this. Things change. Perhaps they change for you as well." He smiled, taking care not to expose his teeth too much.

Leanna just stared, not quite sure what to make of him.

Scrubbing the gore from his hands and arms in a nearby stream, Gokh's thoughts were miles away. The human, Boromir, had made comments about Branwen that irritated the Uruk. Clearly, the man disapproved of her apparent preference for Gokh, perhaps harboring jealousy of that fact as well. He wondered if the man would laugh were he to learn that not even Gokh was likely to be welcomed to her bed anytime soon. Frustrated, he stared into the trickling water, briefly wondering what she might want to talk about. Perhaps she wished to reprimand him for something she'd heard about in his absence, or discuss plans for an approach to take in the negotiations on the morrow to move things along. It could go either way.

Sighing, he turned back toward camp, his footsteps heavy. At the entrance to her tent, he took a deep breath and ducked inside.

As she had done years before, she poured wine into goblets, her back turned. But this time, she was not dressed in warrior's raiment. A thin silk gown clung to her body. Startled, he just stared at her. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

"Don't be shy, Gokh," she murmured, setting down the carafe. Turning, the goblets in her hands, she approached him. "You are welcome here."

His eyes were immediately drawn to her breasts, for the gown was cut low enough to give a tantalizing view of them. More intriguing than the tempting vision of vulnerable flesh was the tattoo emblazoned on it. The hindquarters of a serpentine beast with taloned legs curved up between her breasts. The long, scaly tail extended from the hollow between to rest upon her left breast, its full length disappearing beneath the silk. The hind claw he had glimpsed twice before gripped her right breast possessively. He began to tremble with desire, more than he had at any time before now. To see this beast in all its glory would be to possess the woman fully.

The hopeful thought fell heavily as he realized the berserker had to have seen it. So had others she had taken to her bed. He had told her at their first meeting that her experience was of no matter to him, but things had changed since then.

She watched his expressions change rapidly as he beheld her. Pressing a goblet into his hand, she said, "Drink. And be content."

"You have to be drunk when you want to fuck an orc?" he snarled bitterly, knocking the goblet from her hand. It shattered on the floor, leaving a widening red stain on the canvas.

"I do not wish to fuck you, Gokh," she said softly. "I will never _fuck_ you." Reaching up to touch his cheek, she was dismayed when he jerked away from her. "I want to make love with you," she whispered.

"Is that what you told _him_?" he growled, pushing past her. Taking up the carafe, he drained it, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He could not look at her; his rage was building, and he feared it would go beyond his control, but he could not make himself leave.

"Gokh," she said quietly, yet he sensed a warning in her voice. "My body goes with my heart. If my heart does not take the lead, then, in all truth, my body belongs to my mind. I do what pleases me. In the past, it has pleased me to take lovers, and on occasion my heart has agreed with the match. I have lived for thousands of years. It is completely unfair of you to expect that I would constrain my needs, my desires, until your coming. There have been no others since our first meeting..."

"Do not insult me!" he roared, whirling around. His breath came in gasps as he fought for control. "When we last met, you were fucking that human, Adric."

"The truth is always harder to bear, not just for you," she said gently. "He longed for me, it is true, but I held him at bay. To my shame, I let you think he was my lover because...it amused me to see your jealousy." Closing her eyes, she bowed her head. "I did not know how much you meant to me until the troll struck you, and I watched you dying before my eyes."

His voice shaking, he barely got the words out. "I do not care if you fuck everything that moves! You won't fuck _me_! When I have longed for you and held my promise and...," he blurted, trembling with rage. "I have honored you with every decision, I have endured the lash for you, I have changed everything _for_ _you!"_ Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he snarled, "You taunt me with every touch because I _know_ you will not lie with me. I _know_ you do not wish to pollute your body with something like me."

"No, Gokh," she said, shaking her head and going to him. This time he allowed her to touch his face, only because he knew any movement to avoid it would be violent. "Forgive me, my love, please. I have wronged you terribly if this is what you think."

"Explain to me, then," he snapped. "You care so much for me, yet you can't bear to have me in your bed. Explain this."

"That is not why," she said quietly. "I want you... so badly. But I fear losing you. Not to death or another mate," she said, a slight smile curving her mouth. "If I give myself to you entirely, it would make our parting all the more painful."

"Parting? Where are you going?" he asked. Against her gentle, calm demeanor, he could feel his anger draining. He had broken upon her in a stormy rage, and she had withstood it like a rock, unperturbed but not unmoved.

"I am a slave to my master's will," she replied. "He has pulled me from your side before; it could happen again. Each time has been more painful. If I follow my heart, if I allow myself to love you, I fear the loss of you will be unsurvivable."

"You...you said you wished to be with me tonight," he said, as if it had only now sunk in that she'd said it. "Why now?"

"I wise Uruk made me see things in a different light," she said softly. "Lie with me tonight, Gokh. Love me as you have wanted to for years."

His response was swift and aggressive; grabbing her, he yanked her forward. Instinctively, her arms came up between them in defense. His mouth found her neck, his sharp teeth grazing the skin.

"Gokh," she gasped, distressed. The tent seemed to lurch around her as he all but threw her to the ground and knelt between her legs, his desperate hands roughly pulling the gown up over her thighs. The anger she had held at bay through their earlier conversation now flared up, and she struck him hard across the face. He froze, his breathing ragged and fast.

"You will not take me this way," she said sternly.

"I...know no other way," he replied, humiliated. "I am sorry." He started to get up, intending to leave. Her hand on his arm stopped him.

"Then I will teach you another way," she said softly.


	11. Getting Ready to March

Kaanurz was immediately aware of a change in his superior's overall disposition as the unbelievably huge army broke camp and began to line up. One army of a thousand Uruk-hai was bound for Isengard, Gandalf at the head, to divest Saruman of his power. The rest were pointed toward Minas Tirith, far to the east. The captain was quiet, his movements deliberate yet his expression vacant, as if thoughts other than the task at hand were foremost in his mind. Kaanurz hadn't seen Gokh in a couple of days as the conclusion of the talks between the Uruk generals and the human commanders and king had finally arrived. Agreements had been reached only the day before, and already the combined forces of men and Uruk-hai were mixing; archers were the first ones gathered together into manageable, and equally numbered, companies. Pikemen had been next, though there weren't nearly as many humans as Uruk-hai in this case. The pikemen, after all, were best suited against cavalry, and riders made up the bulk of Theoden's forces.

Forgetting all that, the corporal stole several glances at his old friend. Even now, the captain had paused in the act of rolling up his tent canvas, gazing off into the distance at nothing.

Unable to stand it, Kaanurz walked over and smacked the larger Uruk across the back of his head.

"Snap out of it," he growled. "It'll take you forever to pack up if you keep that shit up."

"Mind yourself," Gokh warned in his low, guttural voice. Resuming his task, he ignored the corporal's exasperated sigh.

"Well, what do you know," Kaanurz said slowly. "I guess she took my advice."

Glaring at him, Gokh said," What advice?"

A grin spread across the corporal's face. Pointing at the captain, he said, " _You_ have the look of an orc who has spent a considerable amount of time inside a woman."

Gokh merely snorted dismissively and turned back to dismantling his campsite. Sidling up next to him, Kaanurz sniggered.

"What was she like?" he whispered. "Is she a screamer?"

The captain's earlier reticence disappeared abruptly as he reached for Kaanurz's throat with alarming speed. His greater bulk easily knocked the corporal onto his back. Prying at his friend's wrists, Kaanurz gasped and sputtered, but Gokh realized the Uruk was laughing. Letting up, the captain got off him.

"Now _that's_ the Gokh I know and love," Kaanurz said as he sat up, rubbing his throat.

"Mount up, boys," Branwen said with some amusement as she rode by. "You're holding us all up."

Kaanurz almost let out another burst of merriment at his friend's expense when he saw how the Uruk tried not to look too much like a well-satisfied male. Securing his gear on the back of his horse, Kaanurz vaulted into the saddle with considerably better humor than he'd greeted the day.

It worried him all night that his Leanna would be facing the horde of Mordor as well. No matter what Grishnaakh said, Kaanurz lacked confidence in the power of this legend. Worse, how could he guard her if he didn't know where she was? She was among the Riders; once the Mordor orcs were engaged, if they did not stand down, he would abandon his mount and join the rest of the infantry.

She had listened to him. Spoken softly, without grimacing in disgust at his appearance or nature. Bless the woman, she laughed at his jokes. It was... nice.

"Your thoughts are far away," Gokh commented as they waited for their section to advance. Far ahead, a seemingly endless sea of silver and black stretched into the distance as the Rohirrim and their orc allies began the long march.

"Yes, well, yours have been close by," Kaanurz replied mildly. "I would say they are less than a mile away." Glancing at his captain, the corporal said, "It is a pity you were not invited to accompany the generals. You might be at her side."

"Hmph. I shall be at her side tonight," Gokh said, straightening noticeably in the saddle. "And every night hence. I can be patient."

Kaanurz chuckled. "Strutting like a rooster, you are," he said, a hint of admiration in his tone.

"You spent a fair amount of the last few days in the company of _your_ woman," Gokh pointed out. "If any should be strutting..."

"It is not like that," Kaanurz said with no little embarrassment. "Well, it _is_ like that, but she is... not quite ready for..."

"Something like you in her bed," Gokh finished with a chuckle. "Nor will she be any time soon. She is not the same as Branwen." Shooting a shrewd glance at his corporal, he grimaced. "Her people have despised us for many generations. If you would woo the woman, you must make her forget that. I do not believe it will be possible, but stranger things have happened." He waved a hand, indicating the armies about them.

"Listen to you, all of a sudden the expert on human females," Kaanurz groused.

The column they were in began to move forward, finally. They both put heels to their horses and followed. "Believe me, I am no expert," Gokh replied with some embarrassment. "I went to her as a beast, in the manner we were taught by Saruman. I am fortunate she did not slay me."

Raising his eyebrows, Kaanurz looked hard at his friend. "Had you asked, I would have told you such methods are not acceptable."

"Yes, well, you were not there."

"Next time, I will take up my dutiful position at your side," Kaanurz leered. "I shall allow no brazen female near without going through me first."

"Your sacrifice will be rewarded, I am certain," Gokh laughed.

* * *

"Whom do you serve, Branwen?" Aragorn asked again as he rode at her side. Branwen kept her eyes forward, back straight.

"You know very well," she replied stiffly. "There are no secrets in this camp."

"Are you certain his... intentions are noble?

Glancing at the ranger, she said, "As noble as yours. He does not seek to support Sauron. If he did, I would not have been permitted to send Frodo on his way. He will carry out his task as he was meant to do. Without my influence, _that_ stream will remain untouched. The Ring will be destroyed, Sauron will fall."

"What _are_ his intentions?"

Sighing, Branwen said, "Understand that the Melkor I serve is thousands of years hence. It is not the Morgoth consigned to the Void as we speak."

"How came you to be in his service?" he pressed.

"That is my business," she said, her tone final.

"Very well. Are you at least able to say what he means by this alliance?"

Choosing her words carefully, Branwen said slowly, "He seeks reparations."

"Reparations? With whom?"

"The orcs, of course. They are his children." Seeing the man's stunned expression, she elaborated, "It is true he did not create them as the elves were created, or Men. But he formed them, after a fashion. They are what they are because of him. And so he considers them his children."

"And... some thousands of years from now, he experiences... regret for their making?"

"Not their making, but what has been made _of_ them. First he used them to further his own ends, then Sauron followed suit. He sees now, or will see, that such use ensured their doom. There will come a time when no orcs exist in the world, and none will remember them except in stories."

Aragorn gazed thoughtfully ahead. "A world without orcs. I confess such a world has its... appeal."

"You have not seen it," Branwen replied, her lip curled. "In truth, I do not see what difference orcs would make. Without them, men are just as brutal to one another as orcs have always been to them. When I left, there were seven billions of them in the world. Many would not walk across the road to help a stranger in need, yet they crowd together in cities, one atop the other. They have such blinding obsessions – technology, ecology, religion, politics – they will oft come to blows over disagreements. Relations between leaders are little less volatile, and often on the same topics. They easily label entire groups of their own kind as not fit to live, and seek to execute them." She shook her head. "No, Men cannot do any worse by having orcs among them."

"You provide a grim vision of the future," Aragorn said quietly. "I wonder whether such things as you describe will remain if Morgoth... _Melkor's_ plans reach fruition."

"Only time will tell," Branwen replied with a smile.

* * *

Far off among the Riders, Leanna rode stiffly, hoping none could see through her guise to the woman beneath. She was unnerved at first by the ease with which the orc found her, but he never once even hinted that his complicity in her ruse came at a price. Rather, he talked at length, describing in humorous detail how the Uruk-hai lived in Isengard. She found herself laughing with him, daring even to relax for one unguarded moment, enough to counter with an amusing tale of her own.

Leanna found herself questioning her instinctive distrust of orcs for the first time in her life.


	12. Marching to War

"I am not as certain of the outcome as you seem to be," Gothmatum snarled, casting a sideways glance at Grishnaakh. The elder orc just shrugged.

"You lack faith," he said simply.

The Uruk general stared ahead, between the ears of the horse he rode, hoping none could see how uncomfortable he was. His back ached from sitting so stiffly in the saddle for so many days, and his backside... well, it was best not to dwell on such things. He would be glad of the moment when they crossed into Gondor, and his officers could abandon horses in favor of feet.

"Tell me," he grumbled, "has such a thing ever happened in your reckoning?"

"Which?" Grishnaakh asked, shifting in the saddle. He, too, appeared greatly irritated by the ride. "Orcs and Uruk-hai on friendly terms, or orcs and Men on friendly terms?"

"Either, both," Gothmatum shrugged.

"You are younglings, mewling babes still to my eyes," Grishnaakh said without heat, intending no insult. "Rash children who need teaching. If there were no Dark Lords pitting us against one another, we might see eye to eye one day." The orc glanced over his shoulder at the lines of men, orcs, and Uruk-hai stretched out behind them like a sea of silver and black. "If it is _this_ you wonder at, no, not once."

"And you believe your brothers in Mordor will lay down their arms as well?"

Grishnaakh snorted. "I have no doubts. _Grishhûnhul_ is legend. She will make things right, as she has always done."

"What _has_ she done?"

"It is said," Grishnaakh began, assuming a tone suitable for telling tales around village bonfires, "long ago, one of ours was held in chains, and _Grishhûnhul_ freed him."

"Hmph," Gothmatum scoffed. "She freed one orc."

"No," Grishnaakh insisted. "The tale is general, but the truth is more. There was a prison in Wilderland, in what Men call the Second Age. It was mostly for Men who had committed wrongs against Men, but they sometimes took some of us and held us for months, _years_ on end. We were not treated as Men were. Beatings we could endure, and did. Worse, though, we were kept in the dark, alone."

"Your kind favor darkness," Gothmatum sneered. "The light of the sun makes you weak." He glanced up at the sun shining overhead, then at the orc beside him. He frowned. "Is this not true?"

"It is true, yes," Grishnaakh confirmed with a nod. "But we are not fighting. We may conserve our strength. Those who march are likely feeling less... vigorous by now."

"Ah."

"We do not mind the dark," Grishnaakh went on, "but isolation... we do not like this. We are best in groups. With our kin, or those whose company is trusted. Too long alone, and we go mad." He fell silent for a moment.

Gothmatum shifted uncomfortably. The idea of madness was not alien to him, but neither was it terribly familiar. If he were to admit it to himself, such a state was one of the few that truly frightened him, for it implied a loss of self-control to a more staggering degree than that which he'd suffered under his Master's command.

"This... prison," the general prompted. Grishnaakh shook himself and continued.

"Yes. No one ever knows where she comes from, or who calls her, but she appeared at this prison one day," the orc said. " _Grishhûnhul_ somehow convinced the warden to empty the prison. Some believe she seduced him, others that she helped one orc escape, and made the men think all had done so. However it was done, there was no one inside, not Man, not orc, when it exploded."

"Explo-... what?" Gothmatum roared in shock.

The old orc chuckled. "Yes. She has wizardry of her own. It is said the blast could be heard for many leagues in all directions. Nothing was left but a blackened hole."

"She saved the Men as well," the general growled, disgusted.

"Perhaps," Grishnaakkh replied with a smile. "This warden and all his guards had no trouble rounding them up afterwards. Mysteriously, there were no orcs to be found when all was said and done."

* * *

"It is good to see you back, Mithrandir," Theoden said gratefully as Gandalf rode up on Shadowfax. The wizard left his thousand Uruk-hai in the care of their commanders and hastened to the command center where the king, his nephew Eomer, members of the Fellowship, the Uruk generals, and officers from both armies had set up their tents and pavilions.

"How fares Saruman?" Branwen asked with one eyebrow raised wryly.

"Spiteful and deeply offended," Gandalf replied wearily. "He was not pleased to see me, especially not with such an escort."

"I have read his musings on their making," the woman snarled with curled lip. "He does not deserve them."

"You think very highly of the Uruk-hai," Theoden remarked. "They are, arguably, more like men than their cousins, but they are still orcs."

"True," Branwen agreed with a sigh, "and perhaps there is some tempering in their nature by such mingling of blood. It may surprise you that orcs in general are very loyal creatures. You earn their trust, and you have a friend for life. And to an orc, that is a very long time indeed."

"You must have performed great services for their kind to earn such reverence," Gandalf said softly. She did not miss the probing nature of the statement.

"I have righted wrongs," she replied simply. "I have defended where no defense was offered. I have cared where no care was given. They remember these things, and they tell others." She shrugged. "I honestly did not expect that they would, not over the course of so many, _many_ years, and in such far-flung places."

"It is still... difficult... for me," Theoden said. "There were many reports of destruction and... foul deeds in the Westfold that I... was unable to address in my... condition..."

"Theoden King," Branwen interjected with a hand on his arm, "you were as much in thrall to Saruman as they were. You are free of it now; so are they. Your people forgave you your weakness, though they suffered. Should not the Uruk-hai be given a chance to prove their mettle, now that they have the choice laid before them to live _in_ the world, and not strive against it?"

The King of the Riddermark pondered for several moments before turning to Gandalf. "What say you, Gandalf Stormcrow? Can their like be trusted?"

"I will answer for you," Branwen said when Gandalf opened his mouth thoughtfully. "In general, I would say no. Trust is _earned_ , and there is too much animosity between your races to hand out trust as one distributes rations. I do not think they trust _you_. Not yet. The next few days, as we cross into Gondor and come closer to Minas Tirith, will firm the bond. I do not expect miracles, only civility at this point, and that we have. It is, most certainly, more than I _did_ expect, and we should all be commended for it."

* * *

Kaanurz once more pitched his nose up and scented the air. Damn if the mixing of orcs and Men hadn't dulled his senses. He'd found perhaps fifty or sixty human females in the army, most of them casting wary eyes on the bemused orcs around them, all of whom knew far better than men what was under their armor. The corporal snorted with amusement. _Don't try to fool an Uruk nose_. Still no Leanna.

A growl of warning made him pull up short, and Kaanurz turned right into a huge Uruk who towered over him by at least a foot and a half. The beast wore only a short kilt of hides and ragged sandals. The corporal slowly looked up into the half-hidden face of a helmeted berserker. He swallowed hard.

"What want, little orc?" the berserker rumbled in broken common.

"Just... enjoying the night air," Kaanurz stammered. "Having a bit of a stroll. What, uh, brings you out of your comfortable lodgings?"

He wasn't sure, but it seemed that the dull-witted monster's beady yellow eyes narrowed inside the form-fitted helmet. His mouth, much larger than most Uruk-hai mouths, contorted in a grimace, showing remarkably healthy, if sharp, teeth.

"Eat," the berserker growled, gesturing off toward a campfire where some other Uruk-hai were huddled. One was cutting up bits of meat from an unidentifiable animal and hurling the chunks into a stewpot.

Kaanurz nodded. "Good. I won't keep you, then." He slowly backed away, nodding and smiling. The hulking beast's gaze lingered on him for a few more seconds, then he turned and lumbered toward the group by the fire. The corporal breathed a sigh of relief.

"How could she possibly...?" he muttered to himself, then shook his head in bewilderment. Even at rest, the foul things scared the hell out of him.

It turned out to be fortunate he'd been stopped for a few minutes, because a group of two dozen Riders on foot came through soon after. Kaanurz's nose twitched and a smile leaped across his face. _Leanna_. Falling in behind the last one, the corporal followed along as casually, and stealthily, as he could.

"I sometimes wonder if the King has gone mad," one Rider commented in an undertone. Kaanurz's ears flicked and twitched, listening intently to their conversation.

"Perhaps he has," a second man allowed, "but I contend that war without bloodshed is never a bad thing. I would rather free this world of the Dark Lord's might once and for all, than quibble over how it is done."

"Yes, but _orcs_?" the first countered. "Have they not always been his servants? How do we not know they will _continue_ to defy him when we stand before his very tower?"

The second Rider shrugged. "We cannot. I will tell you _one_ thing: I hunted for three days with them, as did you. My partners in the underbrush and on the plains were named Fitguk, Bugbal, Murûk, and Rothrak. Bugbal remembered when our lands were home to the Dunlendings." The man chuckled. "He said the land is better cared for by our people than theirs."

"Odd thing to say," the first replied. "Wait... that was... hundreds of years ago."

"Aye," the second answered with a nod. "And Fitguk, believe it or not, is only three summers old."

"You jest."

"Nay," he laughed. " _He_ told me he was born grown from the mud. I was not certain I believed him, until the next day when Murûk confirmed it was true."

"I spoke with one as well," a third, quieter voice interjected, and Kaanurz's heart sang. _Leanna!_

"How old was _he_?" the first Rider smirked.

"I do not know," she replied. "But he was... amusing. The things he said. Did you know that it requires four Uruk-hai to give one newborn a bath, they protest so when they emerge?"

The corporal stifled a chuckle. He remembered telling her that story, of a recently birthed Uruk who thought his 'helpers' meant to drown him. Kaanurz was certain the temptation was there, but they were under orders not to, so the ungrateful lout was spared, but not without a thorough dunking. Of course, he had embellished the tale extensively for her amusement, and it pleased him that she enjoyed it enough to tell these men.

"That does not surprise me," the second man laughed. "Some of them seem not to be familiar with the basics of personal cleanliness, while others are nearly manic about it."

"Oh, too true!" the first agreed with a hearty laugh. "There was one in my group... Puhorm, I think it was... who threw himself naked into streams every time we crossed them, while one called Gozad covered his eyes in horror. Whether it was the notion of a bath or seeing his fellow in such a state that so disturbed him, I do not know."

"They have not had an easy life," Leanna pointed out. "The one I spoke with... he is Kaanurz, who is frequently in counsel with the King. He told me..."

"Kaanurz?" the second man questioned sharply. "That crazy orc?" Kaanurz covered his mouth to keep the explosive laugh from escaping.

"I know him as well," the first man agreed with a nod. "I was told he suggested we throw women at the great orc generals if they did not listen to our peace terms."

"He said such a thing?" Leanna asked, and her tone sobered Kaanurz's humor like a bucket of cold water over his head.

"Hopefully in jest," the second man said sternly.

"If not, that Gokh who leads some of the companies gave him a good reason not to say such things to the King." The first man demonstrated by loudly smacking his fist into his hand.

"He was likely joking," Leanna said with little confidence.

"Aye, that is _all_ he does," the first man agreed. "Still, he is amusing, as you said. It would never have occurred to me that his kind had a sense of humor." He chuckled and shook his head. "I regret not hunting in any of his parties, now. We might have returned empty-handed, but we would have had a laugh or two, and that is a blessing not to be squandered these days."

Kaanurz shadowed the Riders until they reached their tents, then sneaked into the one he guessed to be Leanna's by the scent permeating the canvas. Within minutes, she entered.

"Do not be frightened, it's me, Kaanurz," he said quickly, his voice as soft as he could make it.

Nevertheless, Leanna jumped and covered her mouth to stop the scream. She took a deep breath to calm herself. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"I followed you through camp," he whispered. "I would have made my presence known, but your comrades began talking about us, and I confess I was curious."

"You eavesdropped," she accused.

"Yes, well, it _is_ what I do," he replied modestly, smiling. "I believe I pointed that out when we first met. Shouldn't be a surprise."

In spite of his intrusion, she found herself smiling. Leanna sighed with resignation and sat down. "It is unseemly to be in my tent without a man of my family present."

Kaanurz raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Why would that be necessary?" He settled himself in front of her.

"Well, I...," she began, then faltered. Shrugging, she pressed on. "I suppose it does not matter. I am in a camp full of men, and I do not wish to make my presence known to any family members. I will have to remain unescorted."

"If you would like a protector," Kaanurz offered, "I am your man. Sort of." He grinned, forgetting to mask his jagged teeth. He saw her tense, and swiftly closed his lips.

"Kaanurz," she said quietly, her eyes intently focused on her hands in her lap, "what is it you want?"

He breathed in deeply, thoughtfully, and nearly lost his train of thought over her intoxicating scent. Forcing his mind to focus on the question, he ventured an answer. "I want what my _pizdur_ has with Branwen."

"Your... what?"

" _Pizdur_ ," he said, then frowned. "It is his rank in the army. He commands several companies. I do not know the word in your tongue."

"I see," she said. "You speak of Gokh, do you not?"

"Yes," Kaanurz replied. "We were birthed the same day. I suppose you could call us friends. We are as close as brothers of the same blood." He snorted. "It is possible we _do_ share the same blood. I have no idea. Our Master did not think it important to inform us of our parentage." He flicked a cautious look at Leanna, hoping she wouldn't inquire about such things. It was not a subject he ever wished to address with anyone.

The generals may have been surprised by the methods used by Saruman in breeding his Uruk-hai, but stealthy Kaanurz with his nose poked in everyone's business but his own had known those things for some time.

"What, exactly, does he have with Branwen?" she asked. "I am afraid I do not know what goes on among the commanders."

"I suspect you would not approve," he hedged.

"Oh," Leanna replied quietly. "They are lovers."

"Yes," he confirmed. "He has longed for her these last several years. It was... painful to watch," he said. He'd almost said it was amusing to watch, for there were certainly times when he had teased the stoic Uruk over his infatuation. Now that Kaanurz was similarly afflicted, it was not funny at all.

"Please do not take offense," she said timidly, "but I did not know... orcs had such... feelings."

"We do," he sighed, "when we are allowed to indulge them. That is not often. Our Master did not think we _should_ be allowed. He saw to it we would not."

"How so?"

"He did not make females," Kaanurz replied with a shrug. "Something tells me we would not desire them if he had. We are too closely related to Men, so we have similar... tastes." His gaze met hers for a lengthy, increasingly uncomfortable moment.

"Is it... _me_ you want?" she whispered, and even in the dimness of her tent, Kaanurz could see her trembling. Were he blind, he would still almost taste the sudden uptake in her fear scent. He didn't much like the smell of it, not coming from _her_.

"I am no liar, Leanna," he said cautiously. "You are... beautiful to my eyes. But... I...," he faltered, and bowed his head. "I am not nearly so lovely to look upon."

Grimacing at his own words, Kaanurz all but scrambled from her tent in his haste to get away. The night air was crisp and fresh, a great relief from the suddenly stifling confines of the tent. He breathed in deeply, then strode back to the command center, hoping she would not remember his bitterness or humiliation for saying such things.


	13. The Madness of Hope

Mazaukash had never run faster or farther in his life. His large bare feet slapped the stones as he ascended the pass, the gaping maw of _her_ lair before him. He could not slacken his pace; word must reach the Tower.

Once in the noisome closeness of the cave, the orc slowed a step or two, but shook it off. _She ordered me to make all haste_ , he thought. _The way will open_. He leaped over rocks and dodged webs, his breath coming in gasps.

The messenger burst through the shredded remains of the great spider's rear door, not even pausing to wonder at what may have cut the threads. Down, down, through the switchbacks he ran, the black stone of Cirith Ungol below and getting ever larger. Night fell as he finally reached the front gates.

"Open the way!" Mazaukash shouted. "I bring news! Where is the captain?"

The hunchbacked form of the doorwarden shuffled forth. "Shut yer yap, maggot! Whatcha belly-achin' fer?"

"I come from the front," the messenger replied breathlessly. "Sent for Shagrat. He here?"

"Aye, up top. Got hisself a little toy to play with. Ain't wantin' to be disturbed. You got news, you tell _me_."

Stricken, Mazaukash squealed, "No! I must see Shagrat! _Now_! It's important!"

The doorwarden rolled his eyes. "On yer head if he gets mad," he snarled, then opened the gate. "Stairs all the way up, over yonder."

Nodding gratefully, the messenger dashed off in the direction indicated. There were orcs and black Uruks sharing space in the Tower, an odd thing to be sure, but the messenger had no time for it. He took the steps two at a time, dodging others coming down or going up, ignoring their snarled protests and shoving hands.

At the top, he found an empty landing and whirled around, looking for the captain. A sound above made him look up, and he saw the trapdoor.

"Oy!" he shouted, using his sword to bang on the door. "Got a message for Shagrat! Open up!"

The trapdoor suddenly flew open and a sallow, very angry, bestial face appeared. "What the fuck do you want? I _said_ , no interruptions!"

"Are you Shagrat?"

"Nah, Gorbag. Who's asking?"

"I'm Mazaukash," the messenger cried, shifting from foot to foot in agitation. "I came from the front, out where the force was gathering to attack the city of Men. I have news for Shagrat."

Rolling his eyes, Gorbag disappeared for a moment, then came back, sliding a crude ladder down through the opening. Sighing with relief, Mazaukash ascended into the brightly-lit tower room.

"This better be one hell of a good message," the captain snarled.

A black Uruk growled a warning nearby, arms crossed over his chest. The room stank of anger and fear. Mazaukash focused on the black Uruk.

" _She_ has come," he said simply. Shagrat's eyes narrowed. "She leads a great army. They came to the city we hold, the one the men call...," he said, fumbling over the strange word. He'd never gotten it right, never in all the years he'd been there with the occupying force. "Osgith or somesuch."

"An army?" Gorbag growled. "Who? What army?"

" _Grishhûnhul_ ," Mazaukash cried with exasperation, as if it should have been obvious. What other _she_ was there? "An army of the White Wizard's pets. Those Uruk-hai dogs from Isengard."

Gorbag grimaced and spat on the floor. "Surprised the lot of them didn't kill her on sight. Stupid mongrels. Wouldn't know their ass from a hole in the ground, even with signs telling'em which is which." Then he frowned. "She's here?" he whispered.

"Aye, and the bastard filth ain't the only things she's got trailing after her," Mazaukash replied eagerly. This was, by far, the best part of the story, the part that had shocked so many, so completely, when the army appeared on the horizon. An army so vast, the pitiful force stood no chance, could make no challenge. Their support, the reinforcements from Mordor, hadn't arrived yet. Surrender would have been the only option, except... "They are allied with those horsemen, the ones to the north with the gold hair."

Gorbag started, and looked wide-eyed to the black Uruk for his thoughts. An alliance with Men: only _she_ could have managed such a thing. What he saw was surprising, though it shouldn't be, now that he thought of it. Shagrat's usually fierce face had gone slack, and he was blinking rapidly, mouth slightly open. His body trembled.

"She has come?" he asked quietly. Then he flared up and grabbed the smaller orc by the throat and snarled, "If you lie, I will eat your face!"

"No lies! I have spoken with her! She sent me here!" Mazaukash squeaked, his feet kicking ineffectually in the air.

"Why _here_?" Gorbag asked as Shagrat let the messenger loose.

"Because of _him_ ," he replied, pointing at the battered heap on the floor. "She said, 'go to Cirith Ungol and stop Shagrat from harming him. Tell him he must give aid to the halflings, help them finish their mission.'"

"Half- _lings_?" the captain barked. "There's _more_ of'em?"

"Just two. This one, and another what came with him," Mazaukash said, rubbing his throat. "Out there, somewhere. Like as not, she said, he'd be close by."

"What're they _here_ for?"

"It does not matter," Shagrat snarled, waving his hand dismissively. "She has spoken; we will obey."

Gorbag took a deep breath. He'd been about to strip the little thing, find out if he had any valuables, anything to tell why he was skulking about Shelob's lair, in case some clever elven plot required reporting to the Great Eye. Things had suddenly changed.

Squatting down next to the childlike figure on the floor, Gorbag poked him in the shoulder. "Hey, wake up, you."

Still weak and feverish from the spider's poison, Frodo slowly opened his brown eyes, only to see the terrifying red eyes of Gorbag looking at him once more. He winced and looked away.

"None'uh that," the captain said, nudging the halfling roughly. "Whatcha need, eh? Where are you going?"

When no answer came, Gorbag looked up at Mazaukash helplessly. "He ain't talking. Somethin' tells me if I _make_ him talk, she won't be happy with me."

"That's the smartest thing you've ever said," Shagrat chuckled.

The messenger knelt down beside the tiny figure, whose eyes flickered open again. "I got more, see. Not just _Grishhûnhul_ is leading the army. She's got your friends with her, as well. One's gonna be king when all is said and done."

Frodo blanched and bit his lip. How had they learned this? Were his friends taken captive by this... _Grishhûnhul_ person? Were they dead?

"He told me, this king," Mazaukash went on, his voice almost kind, very nearly gentle, "he said to tell you, Bill's likely gone to Tom's house, and he'll be safe there."

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" Gorbag barked.

The messenger just shrugged. "That's what he told me to say." He looked down at the amazed hobbit's face, and grinned. " _He_ knows what it means."

* * *

Samwise Gamgee wrestled with his fears and his loyalty to Frodo as he approached the forbidding Tower of Cirith Ungol. _Mr. Frodo isn't dead_ , he kept telling himself. But the Tower was as full of orcs as a nest was of wasps, and something had stirred them up.

Even as the hobbit stood on the causeway, debating what to do, the gates flew open. Hundreds of orcs began to march out. Samwise was caught dead center of the road in front of them; he froze in terror.

"There he is!" shouted one, pointing at Sam. He almost collapsed, almost ran, until he saw Mr. Frodo standing beside the swarthy creature. Shocked too much to move, he just stood there dumbly as his master embraced him with relief.

"They are helping us, Sam!" Frodo cried. "They will take us to the mountain."

"But Mr. Frodo...," the round-faced hobbit stammered. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but..." He lowered his voice. "They're a bit worse company than Stinker, don't you think?"

"A great hero in their eyes has come," Frodo explained, turning Sam around and urging him to begin walking. The orcs followed. "She ordered them to help us, and so they will."

"But... Mr. Frodo," Sam insisted, "can we trust'em?"

"Strider sent a message," Frodo replied. "One they could not possibly have invented." He nodded firmly. "They will take us there."

"Aye," Gorbag growled beside them. Sam almost stumbled, looking up at the fierce face of the orc. " _Grishhûnhul_ has come. It must be the last battle."

"'Last battle'?" Frodo repeated, confused.

"She's been pickin' away at'em for ages," Shagrat supplied. "Doing bits here and there. Cutting us loose, little by little. He ain't even been aware of it."

"Who?" Sam asked.

"The Great Eye, that's who," Gorbag cut in. "This land used to grow. Now it's covered in ash. We been waitin' for centuries. We'll be takin' our own back, now." He grinned over their heads at Shagrat, who nodded and smirked.

"We get to the crossroads, I'll send some of the lads to the Gates, and I'll take off for his Tower. They'll wanna hear about this."

Frodo's face fell, and he looked between them uncertainly. "What will you tell... whoever 'they' are?"

Shagrat laughed and clapped Frodo so hard on the back, the weakened hobbit nearly fell over. Sam hastily caught and steadied his master, then shot an indignant glare at the black Uruk. "'They' are my brothers, and _we_ have been waiting since the Siege for her return. Always, she's shown up somewhere else. Now she's coming here." He nodded confidently. "Yes, this is it. The time has finally come."

"Let me come, too," Mazaukash piped up. "She's got messages for them as well."

"I've no doubt," the black Uruk said solemnly.

Gorbag's red eyes glowed warmly as he looked over the land they were marching past, yet it seemed he was seeing something else. "We used to have grass, do you remember?" he suddenly asked. Shagrat nodded. "Trees with leaves, too. And the sun."

Sam frowned. "I thought you lot didn't like the sun," he said without thinking. He immediately shut his mouth tight and stared at Gorbag in fear, but the orc just chuckled.

"That'll be the mountain orcs you're thinkin' of, halfling," he said. "Maybe we don't get on well with the sun, but we don't hate her. Mountain orcs don't see her playing on the leaves of trees. They don't see her shining on the water. Things don't grow without her." He drew in a deep breath, likely recalling the smell of fresh air, for it certainly couldn't be had on the Plateau of Gorgoroth. "Grass and trees. Somethin' for the coneys to burrow under."

Sam's eyebrows lifted, and he exchanged a look with Frodo. Gorbag noticed their curious expressions, and smiled toothily. "Used to trap coneys with my sister, way back, ages ago. Ain't seen one in here since _he_ came and laid waste to the land. Made us help'im do it, too," the orc snarled bitterly. "No more'uh that."

"You'll need gardeners," Frodo suggested. "If you want this land to grow again." He glanced over at Sam, who looked uneasy, clearly hoping not to be 'volunteered' for the job.

"Aye," Gorbag agreed wistfully. "My da knew how to make things grow. I remember what he taught. I'll make sure we do what needs to be done."

As they came off the causeway onto the main road, Shagrat said, "We'll have to leg it. Crossroads' about thirty leagues from here." Eying the hobbits critically, he said, "Nothing for it. You two ain't gonna keep up. Gorbag, you take the sickly one, I'll take the other."

"Take us?" Sam squeaked. Frodo's eyes widened.

"Up you get," the black Uruk said as he lifted Frodo like a small child and settled him onto Gorbag's back. The orc hooked his arms under the hobbit's knees. Frodo clung to his shoulders and trembled. Shagrat bent his knees to allow Sam a more dignified ascent, but the poor hobbit just stared at him in horror. "Ain't got all day!" Shagrat snarled.

Another orc stepped up at a nod from the Uruk and hefted the reluctant hobbit onto Shagrat's back. "Now we can make decent time," he commented, and the orcs began to run for the crossroads.


	14. Making for the Gates

Gokh gasped as if he'd just run several leagues without slacking. Beside him, slick with sweat, Branwen also labored for breath. He longed to gather her in his arms after such bliss, but in truth, his limbs were like dead things. Best just to wait it out. Movement would be required all too soon, if the sounds beyond the tent's walls were any indication.

"You learn quickly," Branwen said, and smiled at him.

"I have always had good teachers," he grinned. "No other lesson has been as sweet as this." Finally mustering the necessary strength, he rolled onto his side and stroked her face. "I reviled your master every time you were ripped from my hands. I did not know who it was until..." His expression hardened. "I do not trust this."

"Is it _me_ you do not trust?" Branwen asked, worried.

"Not you." He shook his head with frustration. "I trust _you_ with my life. But he who made us... made _orcs_. _Him_ I do not trust."

Branwen sat up and looked at him with concern. "Have you lost faith, Gokh? We are very nearly at an end to all of this. Boromir and Gandalf went to the city only yesterday. I expect we will see the Steward's army marching forth to join us in a matter of days."

"You sent the messenger," Gokh pointed out. "How long do you think it will take for them to reach the Mountain? Orcs are fast runners."

"You think we should move now?" she asked.

Gokh nodded. "The generals would likely say the same. Those from Mordor, that is. They know better than any."

"You are right," Branwen nodded. "I will consult with them. Perhaps it would be wise to move sooner than later. We still have Rohan with us. Gondor can come behind, as reinforcements should things not turn out as we expect."

Gokh shook his head. " _Noth_ _ing_ has been as expected. We should be spitted upon their swords, not bedding down among them."

"You and I should not be lovers," she replied wryly, "and yet we are. Speak no more of being slain by Men. That time has passed." She took his hand and held it firmly. "When Sauron has been cast down, and the enslavement of orc-kind is at an end, there will be peace. We have forged such friendships just in these few weeks that... that _nothing_ can tear it asunder."

His brow furrowed. She looked off into space with such a desperately hopeful expression, he wondered if she said these words to convince herself more than him. Forcing himself to smile, he squeezed her fingers reassuringly.

Dressing, they left the tent and went about their separate duties, Gokh to his company and Branwen to the generals. Osgiliath had not known such sights in all its existence: the sprawling, ruined city played host to a vast army of orcs, Uruk-hai, and men. Some scuffles broke out, as was expected, but officers on either side were always quick to quell the rising tensions.

Grishnaakh, by virtue of being among the original founders of this peace, was allowed to mix with the highest ranks. He found himself increasingly in conversation with Aragorn, something he never imagined in all his many centuries. The future king of Gondor appeared similiarly incredulous.

"I have spent much of my life slaying your kind," the Ranger mused. "Yet we sit together, sharing meat and drink, remembering days when the Shadow was not so thick upon the land. I wonder that such a time existed."

"Aye, it did," Grishnaakh nodded. "There are tales of those times. We do not forget. When the first Dark Lord was banished, before _this_ one came, we had a time of peace. A moment to breathe, and raise our young." Smirking, he added, "A short time. Men came, then. Hunted us. Still do." Casting a narrow-eyed, shrewd look at Aragorn, the orc said, "You call us murderous beasts and despise us. Who is more beast, eh? You come into our villages, strike down our females who never raised weapon, spit our young on your swords as if they committed grievous wrong against you. You give us reason to hate _you_ , and you wonder at our anger." Curling his lip in a snarl, he spat on the ground, but otherwise made no aggressive overtures. They might have been discussing a minor political disagreement.

Aragorn frowned. "We share guilt in this, I think. You attack us, we attack you. We cannot know how it began, but... it is ended now. We have common cause, though I confess I never imagined orcs would wish to take up arms against their masters."

"Any slave would, if given hope of freedom," Grishnaakh replied with a snort. " _Grishhûnhul_ has seen to that. Showed us our way, and how to get there."

"Who is she, truly?" the Ranger asked.

The orc shrugged. "Does it matter? We have not questioned. No reason to. She looks to our welfare, and asks nothing in return. We do not care _who_ she is, or _where_ she came from. She looks upon us as... worth saving. So we must live up to such measures."

As if ushered in by the mention of her name, Branwen walked up to them, a grim expression on her face. "Grishnaakh, Aragorn, we must gather the generals. Gokh has brought up a concern, and I do not think we should wait any longer for the Steward's army to join us."

The two rose, and the orc stretched his stiffened back for a moment. The years were weighing heavily upon his shoulders these days. He would be grateful for a rest when all was said and done. Perhaps find himself a mate. Chuckling to himself, Grishnaakh shook his head. It amused him that he always contemplated such comforts when he could smell Gokh on her.

In the command center, which at one time was a great concert hall but had long since been rendered roofless by frequent catapult volleys, the generals gathered. Branwen's eye skimmed the group, making certain all the important folk were present. There was the formidable Gothmatum, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking down his nose at the shorter Mordor orcs. Théoden and Aragorn stood side-by-side, both still a trifle uncomfortable in the presence of so many they had only recently held at the point of a sword. There were many more of them, now: Afhush and Kumon from the force occupying Osgiliath when the army arrived were the most outspoken of the lot. In all, Branwen now had to contend with a dozen males of varying races and agendas, none fully trusting anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, Branwen began.

"We stand at a crossroads, in a manner of speaking. The messenger, Mazaukash, should have arrived at the Tower by now, which means, if our messages were positively received, the Ringbearer hastens to the Mountain of Fire. We must assume this is the case. Kumon, I believe you have spent much time in that area of the Plains. What say you of how much time it will take for orcs to run from Cirith Ungol to Mount Doom?"

The grey-skinned orc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Couple days. Assumin' they don't run across no trouble along the way. Wraiths and such." He grinned toothily. "Them don't much care for orc legends."

Branwen chuckled. "No, they are not fond of me, this is true. But you bring up a good point: they are likely called to march _toward_ the Morannon, not away from it. Their movement may draw the Eye. All the more reason that we must make all haste to the Gates. I want the Eye _on us_. As many of your folk as we can turn against him, the better our chances of causing enough of a ruckus that he can't look away."

Nodding, Afhush glanced around at his fellow generals from Mordor, and said, "Fast as we can, then. Leave our frillies behind. March day and night. We ain't got much time left, if we're racin' them Tower orcs."

"Agreed. We march within the hour, then," Branwen declared. The orcs and Uruk-hai nodded and dispersed immediately, barking orders almost before they'd left the gutted building. Aragorn and Théoden hesitated.

"An hour's notice? Is that enough?"

"It is _now_ ," she snapped. "We have run out of time."

* * *

Kaanurz did not receive his marching orders happily. He hadn't met _any_ news with his usual humor lately. Ever since humiliating himself so thoroughly in Leanna's tent, he'd given her a wide berth. Not difficult, of course. He was infantry, she was among the Riders. Their paths never crossed. Perhaps it was better this way, he mused.

Except that he worried. He wondered if she was being looked after. Keeping her head down. There weren't any rumors of the Mordor orcs, or Uruk-hai for that matter, taking advantage of the presence of so many females close at hand, but he couldn't help fearing for her. Perhaps they all just instinctively knew not to indulge such instincts in her presence. Or quelling the lust so many of them felt was part of _Grishhûnhul_ 's power.

Snorting with ironic amusement, he thought, _Doesn't appear to be working on Gokh_.

And it wasn't working on him, either. Thoughts of Leanna were never chaste. He could admit in his own mind that it amused him and to a certain extent contented him, just speaking with her. Hearing her voice, her laughter; seeing her smile and blush at his sometimes ribald statements. There was no denying the _other_ feelings, though. His body throbbed with desire for her; sometimes the need was so great, he sought relief.

Who was he kidding? _Always_ the need was too great to ignore. He feared rubbing himself raw before they ever got to the Gates.

The Uruk was a spy; he'd spent the better part of his few years hiding in the shadows, watching humans. He was _supposed_ to bring news of their plans, their strengths and weaknesses. While he delivered such bits and pieces, he intentionally sought other information as well. For example, he felt fairly confident that he could list the full range of positions favored by the men of Rohan, both with their mates, and with the whores. There was a noticeable difference between the treatment of mates and that of whores. A mate was given tenderness, while a whore was more often than not taken roughly. Mates were not shared, while a whore was.

Once, Kaanurz witnessed a man raping a woman. He'd frankly been shocked, for he'd never imagined men would do such things. Orcs, yes; men, no, particularly given the violence with which they paid orc-kind for such acts.

She was the eldest daughter of a Rider, and the Uruk had spent considerable time gathering information from this important man. He'd seen the lively girl on more than one occasion.

After the attack by a man thought to be trustworthy, the girl changed. There was no longer light in her eyes, or laughter on her lips. She hid, and cowered. She wept often. Kaanurz learned then what his own folk likely left behind, if any survived their attacks.

He did not want to see Leanna extinguished in such a way. Not by anyone, but especially not him. Yet he lacked confidence that he would not do such a thing anyway, if driven by need and want. He was an orc, after all.

Given _that_ fact, it would not be necessary to force himself upon her to snuff out her light; merely touching her would do that quite nicely.

* * *

Regardless of the intention to march in an hour, it was almost two before all the troops were lined up, bloody noses staunched, harsh words stifled, and distraught horses calmed. Branwen took up her position at the head among the generals, Gokh at her side. His doubts earlier had planted a few seeds in her own mind, and she did not want him far from her now. They were desperately close to the goal she'd sought on her Master's behalf for so long...

The sound of hooves and booted feet thundered through the hollow ruins of Osgiliath as the mammoth force marched eastward. Here and there, orcs burst into marching songs, singing of blood and death. The words made the men uncomfortable, for often they were the subject.

If they did not sing of men being split open and roasted, it was elves, or _golug-hai_ as they called them in their tongue. Legolas did not turn or acknowledge the foul singing, preferring to keep his head high and back straight. His haughty indifference only amused them more, of course.

"Wish they'd sing in their own tongue," Gimli grumbled behind the elf, for they shared a mount. "I'll not keep my breakfast down with all this talk of guts spilling and skin peeling."

"I didn't," Pippin muttered nearby on his pony. He frequently had to kick the animal faster a few paces to keep up with the tall horses all around. "I never imagined I would wish for an empty stomach until this moment."

"I never thought you'd _have_ one," Merry joked, though his ribbing was only half-hearted. He kept waiting for the orcs to have a go at hobbits next.

"It's good and empty _now_ ," his cousin sighed.

"I feel a great weight of doom upon my heart," Legolas murmured, and the others looked at him with concern. "What we have done... this 'alliance'... there will come a reckoning. I can feel it."

"What sort of... 'reckoning'?" Gimli asked uneasily.

The elf glanced back at his friend. "She serves the cause of _orcs_ in this, not Men. She leads them in the Great Enemy's name. I do not trust the maker of the Shadow."

"What says Gandalf, then?" the dwarf pressed. "He is as much a part of this as any."

"He watches her closely," Legolas replied. "He is no more deceived than I. He also knows who she is, though he tells none."

"Do _you_ know?" Merry asked hesitantly.

"I have... guesses. Things she has said..." The elf's smooth, ageless countenance wrinkled in a frown. Without prompting, he continued, "There is... relation between her and Aragorn, though I know not what it is. I have learned that she is of the Eldar, though she bears the mantle of Man."

"An _elf_?" Gimli cried.

Legolas nodded. "She departed West long ago, and has come back. Only the Eldar do this. How many Ages of the Children of Ilúvatar she has walked this land, I know not."

"Do you think she can be trusted?" Pippin asked quietly. Though she seemed fair enough, she _did_ consort with orcs. Quite intimately, in one case at least. Yet, he had the opportunity to speak with the messenger before he took off for Mordor, and he seemed... well, if not kind and well-spoken, at least less foul than the hobbit expected. He wondered if they were the way they were because of what Morgoth and Sauron did with them... _to_ them. Perhaps if they'd associated with Men, Elves, Dwarves... and _Hobbits_ , of course, they might have turned out differently.

"I neither trust nor distrust," Legolas replied carefully. "I watch, and wait."


	15. In the Shadow of the Gates

Before them, the Gates of the Morannon loomed like the clenched teeth of a vast beast. Even Branwen faltered briefly, though she had seen them before. She exchanged a glance with Gokh to her right, and checked the dark faces of the orcish generals. All were nervous, but stoically hid their apprehension behind scowls and grimaces. The faces of the Men were grim, but they too held fast. Taking a deep breath, Branwen slowly advanced ahead of the host, placing herself out in the open. The orc and Uruk generals, the representatives of the Free Peoples, the remaining members of the Fellowship, formed a line on either side as she approached the gates.

Gandalf, aided by Shadowfax's swift feet, caught up to them in the night and now rode at Branwen's left.

She knew that the Eye would see her as its servants saw her in the Shadow Realm, and once it spied her, she would have its full attention. She unfurled her banner, holding it high and defiantly. Upon the purple field of her standard, a single star blazed.

"Sauron!" she called. "Come meet your doom!"

The beast's mouth began to open.

* * *

He was Uruk-hai, Kaanurz reminded himself. About to face a land peopled entirely by _snaga_ orcs of the Eye. _Fuck_. There was bravery in the face of certain death, then there was surviving to fight another day. He felt caught somewhere in between, perhaps as a result of his mixed heritage, or the influence of the Men he spied upon, or concern for _her_.

Whatever it was, he couldn't bear it another minute. Ducking out of sight, he slipped through the throng, back several ranks, ignoring the insults and jeers, the calls of 'coward' and 'faithless.' _I'm not leaving, you stupid load of pushdugs_ , his thoughts growled. Horses first, he informed his nose, and focused on the scent of the cavalry. Horses first, then females, then Leanna.

* * *

Legolas watched the woman holding the banner aloft, calling for Sauron's attention, and worried.

What if he bade her betray them all? The thought did not sit well with the elf. Not for himself was he concerned, but for these Men. They had trusted to a legend none had any knowledge of until a bare moon's turning before. Now they were intermixed with those they had called enemy, facing their enemy's master. What would pour from the gate slowly opening before them?

There was little chance that the massive army of Uruk-hai, coupled with the orcs that held Osgiliath, would be defeated by the Men of Rohan, not if the orcs of Mordor joined them. If she gave such an order, he had no doubt it would be heeded. But Legolas did not want to believe she would deceive them so. She was _eldar_ , for Eru's sake!

Would that he had a chance to speak with Gandalf upon his arrival. The wisdom of the wizard would do much to ease his mind.

* * *

Leanna trembled, watching that massive gate creep slowly open. Her horse felt her nervousness and shifted from foot to foot in agitation. Every gust of air blown out its nose, every bridle-rattling shake of its head, seemed to echo like a din in the stillness.

 _Be calm_ , she told herself firmly. _You are Rohirrim_.

She barely turned her head from one side to the other, glancing at the faces of the men up and down the line. Most were grim and stern; veterans of battles long past, accustomed to this waiting, the long breath before the rush into chaos. A few younger faces looked frightened, and their lips moved in silent prayer. Nowhere that she looked, however, could she see a single orc. Even those with skills at riding wargs had not deigned to ride among them, or were not allowed by their own officers.

Perhaps the nearness of one would grant her a small amount of courage.

The thought made her flinch. _He is an orc, Leanna_ , she admonished herself. _He cannot... **will** not protect you from his own folk._

Word had reached her company that nothing was known of the messenger or how he was received. She could not imagine that they would be thrice blessed with yet another vast army of orcs bending the knee before a woman so slight of stature, so modest of presence, as Branwen. Leanna bit her lip anxiously.

Away off to her left, a commotion started. Several horses reared up, causing a stir, and the upheaval was coming toward her. Frowning, Leanna looked closely at the cause of the uproar.

With a start, she realized it was Kaanurz. Once his eyes found her, they never left, and he muscled his way through the throng of horsemen until he stood at her knee. Fear of discovery as a woman shot through her for a moment, but he said nothing, and made no move to touch her or reveal his intentions.

Giving her a short nod, he rammed his helmet firmly down on his head, secured his shield, and drew his sword. Then he positioned himself in front of her horse like a bulwark.

 _Béma, he stands between me and all of Mordor_ , she thought incredulously. In that brief moment before he turned away, she saw in his face that he did not come for the alliance, for Rohan, or even for _Grishhûnhul._ He came for _her_.

* * *

Weakened to the point of collapse, Frodo gazed up the mountainside. Though he would have liked to heave great breaths to fill his tired lungs, this close to the Fire the air was noisome and sulfurous. And filled with the stench of orcs.

"Come now, Mister Frodo," Sam urged quietly. "Only a little ways left."

"Just... let me rest a moment, Sam," he rasped. "Only a moment."

"Yuh doin' all right there?" Gorbag growled, brow pinched in what might have passed for concern on his hideous face. His orcs were gathered about warily, eyes on the sky and back toward the Master's Tower. They'd made it this far without drawing the Eye, but all could feel the pull to the Gates. They'd never disobeyed a direct summons before, and it made some nauseous, others achy in the head. Gorbag got confused every few minutes, and had to remind himself repeatedly that they were on a mission given by a greater authority than the Eye.

They were fewer now. Shagrat was as good as his word, and took his Black Uruks to the Tower and the Gates. Gorbag had complete faith that he was spreading the word, not turning on them. If he'd done that, the sky would be full of wraiths on there cursed winged beasts.

"Gotta move," the orc captain prodded. Just because he couldn't see them or feel them, didn't mean the bastards weren't on their way. "Do whatcha need to do."

Frodo nodded and struggled to rise. The weight of the Ring was unbearable; the whispering in his mind a hissing cacophany. It was angry, afraid, desperate... Not even Its Master's servants seemed inclined to help It. There were no servants of the Precious left.

At that thought, Frodo suddenly looked at Sam. "Gollum," he said.

Sam's eyes widened. "Oh no, Mister Frodo," he whimpered with horror. "You... you're not turning into _him_ , are you?"

Frodo shook his head. "No, Sam. But... what became of him?"

"Ran off, I expect," Sam said with relief. "Haven't seen him since... that place."

Taking a deep breath, Frodo nodded. "I am ready, Sam. Help me, please."

Sam pulled his master to his feet and draped Frodo's arm over his shoulders. They both looked up and up, at the dim outline of a gateway. That was where Gorbag said they'd need to go.

"For all of us," Frodo murmured. The image of a jovial old hobbit face dissolving into grotesqueness filled his mind, and he straightened with resolve. "I will free us all."

"Oy," Gorbag snapped at his orcs, "leg it. We're goin' up. Break's over. _Move_."

* * *

"Come forth, Sauron the Deceiver!" Branwen cried. "You whose very name defines foulness and putrescence! Face me! Come hither, or would you cower in your hall in fear of a woman?"

Her voice was defiant and demanding, yet perhaps only Gokh could hear the small hint of uncertainty in it. He watched her ride between the grinding gate and the host, making sure they all saw her banner and were strengthened by it, and his heart swelled with pride in his mate. She would lead them into the dragon's den without fear, and he would ride at her side. Where he would always be.

Branwen's ride finally halted as the gates opened wide. There was utter silence on the Dagorlad plains.

Gokh's breath caught for a moment. Beyond the Black Gate stood a seething mass of orcs as far as the eye could see. Interspersed here and there were flashes of color; Easterlings from Khand and Harad, no doubt. He had heard their like were in service to the Dark Lord. Like raised boils, the thick masses of trolls stood head and shoulders above their orcish masters, ready to obey any order given.

His shock at the sheer numbers amassed against them faded as soon as he saw Branwen's gesture. Like an automaton, Gokh urged his horse forward with the rest of the officers in her wake. A lone figure mounted on a black steed had emerged from the front ranks and was riding toward her to parley.

"Such brave words," the Mouth of Sauron jeered in his sepulchral voice. "You look upon your end." He swept his arm grandly toward the lines of Black Uruks in the vanguard.

"I did not come all this way to bandy words with a mere door warden," Branwen sneered. "I would treat with he who commands you, for I speak with the voice of your master's _master_."

Noting the woman's standard, the Mouth smirked. "How like you. Would that be a Silmaril upon your banner?"

"May its light burn you to cinders, vile betrayer of Men," Branwen snarled.

Chuckling, the Mouth of Sauron held up one hand and gestured. The front lines of Black Uruks marched forth. "So brave," he murmured sarcastically, shaking his head with amusement.

There were still many yards between them and the advancing company, yet Gokh drew his blade and prepared himself for battle. He nearly fell off his horse when the Uruks reached the Mouth.

The first one there unceremoniously yanked the Black Númenórean from his horse and swiftly beheaded him, tossing the twitching body aside. The rest of the Black Uruks never broke stride. Their apparent leader called a halt, then stepped forth, presenting his bloodied sword.

"You have come back, _Grishhûnhul,_ " the Black Uruk said, his voice rough but strong enough to carry. "We serve you. Lead us. Tell us what you will."

Gokh's long-held breath escaped him in a rush, and he began breathing again. Before him, Branwen seemed to straighten with fierce pride and confidence even as she dismounted and strode to the Black Uruk in greeting.

Yet still, Gokh could feel a tension, perhaps even dismay. Well beyond the sea of orcs, far distant yet still just visible was the tower of Barad-dûr. He could _feel_ it; the Dark Lord had not expected this. As Branwen had hoped, the Eye was upon them.

Closer at hand, a murmur rose up as the Easterlings realized their master's control over the orcs had been lost. They looked to their left and right, just beginning to assess their precarious position, trapped in an ocean swell of allies turned enemies, with no escape in sight. Soldiers looked to their commanders for guidance, but there were no orders given as the officers began to panic.

Following Branwen's lead, Gokh and the other officers – orcs, Uruk-hai, Men – likewise dismounted and approached the Black Uruks. Smiling warmly, Branwen accepted the leader's sword.

"Shagrat, I presume?" she asked wryly.

The leader nodded his head slightly, letting a half smile creep across his face for a moment. Receiving his sword back, Shagrat clasped wrists with _Grishhûnhul_.

All at once, the air above them crackled like ball lightning as a smoky, seething cloud formed. Only Branwen looked up without fear; all others stepped back in confusion. She had seen this display before; her Master could not manifest in physical form here, for his 'current' self languished in the Void. But he could project his will, his thoughts, and at times such dramatic displays as this. When he spoke, Melkor's voice thundered across the plains so that all could hear.

"The time has come to strike, Tindómiel. Raise your armies. Turn to the West, and destroy _all_."


	16. The End of All Things

Aragorn's jaw fell open as he stared at the woman, barely noting her shocked expression, hardly recalling for the moment the rest of the First Dark Lord's command.

"Tindómiel?" he gasped in disbelief. "How can _you..._ be _she_?" He shook his head in denial. He looked to Gandalf, neither surprised nor dismayed by this revelation. The wizard merely watched her passively, waiting.

It seemed the entire host held its breath, and so too did the massive pulsating cloud hanging above them.

"You...," Aragorn began again, "you are the daughter of _Elros_?"

Branwen – Tindómiel had no answer, and seemed not to hear. She stared into the cloud unseeing. In her mind's eye, she recalled every event she was called to witness, every orc life she saved, every command given by her master, and every word he spoke in justification for sparing his misbegotten spawn from extinction. _I have done them grievous wrong_ , he'd said. _Their only hope is in unification_ , he'd insisted. _Their survival depends upon alliance with Men._

Perhaps not all lies, but his true intention was masked until this moment, when the fate of the world balanced upon the edge of a knife. All these centuries, _millenia_ of sending her hither and yon, forging a legend she'd only recently become aware of, providing the Orcs with a rallying point, a liberator... a savior.

It was all a trick. A subterfuge. And she fell for it.

Glancing at Shagrat's confused face, she whispered, "Gorbag?"

He nodded shortly. There it was. At least _that_ might go as planned. Without the yoke of the Shadow, the Orcs would be freed. The last tie was the Ring itself. It dawned on her now that, while Sauron may be as surprised as she, he was not to be sacrificed, nor was the Ring. She recalled now that her master sometimes grumbled about the foolishness of putting all one's power into easily misplaced trinkets.

If Gorbag succumbed and turned against the Ringbearer... It was a precarious position to be in, and Tindómiel realized she had to put all her trust in the heart of an Orc.

Tensions began to rise as the silence stretched. Mere yards from the officers of both Men and orcs stood an impenetrable line of Black Uruks, Sauron's elite fighting force. Beyond them, more orcs than any had seen since the Last Alliance. Behind the officers, another sea of black interspersed with Men, surrounded and helpless as the Easterlings opposite them.

Aragorn slowly drew his sword. The others of the Fellowship followed suit, as did Théoden and Éomer of Rohan and their officers.

Tearing his eyes from the ominous cloud, Gokh looked to his mate and knew this was not expected.

Finally, Tindómiel shook herself and spoke. Her voice started out unsteady, then grew in strength. "I cannot... do that. And I will not."

"Serve me, Tindómiel, as you have always served," the mighty voice of Melkor thundered. "Or there will be... consequences."

"You bade me _save_ them!" she cried, her anger rising. "You wanted them to survive... for _this_? To always be at war? To erase _all_ that we have accomplished?"

"There will ever be war between orcs and Men," Melkor snarled impatiently, as if admonishing a defiant child. "Such 'peace' as you believe you forged would not last. The acts of one alone would unmake it. The hate runs deep."

"You would take advantage of that," she spat. "As you always have. You gave them the hate... and now you use it against them."

"Give the order," Melkor rumbled, and lightning shot through the cloud in agitation. "Or I take him from you. He will not return this time."

Her eyes swiftly turned to Gokh, and she blanched. The Uruk's anger at this turn of events was palpable; she could feel the heat of it rolling off him.

Glancing at her for a moment, he snarled. He did not want to see all they had wrought, all they had fought for, end like this. He had hoped – perhaps foolishly – that once this war was over, her master would leave her to him. There would be no more fading into golden light as she was ripped from his hands time and time again over these last several years. No longer would he need to fight for a moment with her, for they had fought and bled for this peace, for themselves and all his people.

He swelled with fierce pride that when the choice was given to destroy it all or defy her master for the good of orc-kind, she chose the orcs. Then he looked at her again.

It should have been an easy decision she had already made, and yet she looked deeply conflicted. Her eyes held his, her face stricken, tears beginning to form... What was this?

With sudden comprehension, he realized the 'he' Melkor was talking about... was _him_.

"Branwen," he growled in a low voice. "You are _Grishh_ _û_ _nhul._ If you would free us, you must not falter. He cannot command us here, but _you can_."

"Gokh," Tindómiel sobbed, eyes spilling over, "he means to take you from me. I cannot... bear it. Not again."

He rested a hand on her shoulder. "I do not fear death."

"Nor do I," she replied. "I fear _life_... without you."

"Would you end what you have begun?" he asked, flicking his eyes about to remind her of those who gathered beneath her banner, who set aside ancient prejudice for their trust in her, who must surely believe that _this_ time, freedom was within their grasp. "There is more at stake here. You know this."

Bowing her head and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she did her best to rally herself. Looking once more upon his face, she reached up and touched his cheek. "You are... my heart," she said brokenly.

Gokh covered her hand with his. "As you are mine."

"Forgive me, my love," she whispered. He nodded silently.

Turning to the cloud, Tindómiel snarled furiously, "I defy you! I will not give any such order! I will not set them against those they call brothers. The orcs are free of you. And so am I!"

The dark cloud emitted an infuriated roar as it began to boil and writhe. More lightning shot out of its depths.

* * *

Gorbag didn't know quite what to make of the struggle before him. The one called Frodo was trying to put on his Master's Ring; he'd figured that much out. He was also smart enough to know that would get them all in a load of trouble. The rounder one, Sam, was hauling at his arm, trying to stop him.

Should he step in? The two were weak and small; not much of a match for him or his lads, sweltering in the heat of the Sammath Naur. He was told to help, not hinder; protect, not interfere. But this was getting tedious.

"No, Mister Frodo, no," Sam begged. "You can't put it on. Branwen said don't. He'll see you; he'll know we're here. You can't put it on. No, Mister Frodo, _don't_. Please. Just throw it in, and it'll all be over. Let it go. You have to let it go, Mister Frodo."

"I _can't_ , Sam," Frodo sobbed, shaking his head and trying to wrestle free. "It is too strong. I _can't_."

Quite suddenly, Gorbag felt a weight hit his insides, and that whispering voice of his Master became urgent. Or _was_ it his Master? It was familiar, yet different... No matter. It wanted him to take it. Take the Ring from those loathesome little maggots. Take the Ring to his Master.

Glancing back at his lads, he saw their confusion as they looked about them. Perhaps they heard a similar command. Then his eyes caught sight of the small patch of sky visible out the doorway.

Sky choked with fumes blotting out the sun that had not shone on the Plateau of Gorgoroth for centuries...

Turning back to the struggling hobbits, he strode purposefully toward them. Grabbing both hobbits by the hair, he separated them, tossing Sam to the side. The hobbit rolled a few feet and tried to rise. Gorbag gazed down at the frightened face of Frodo, and growled softly, "None'uh that, now."

Wresting the Ring from Frodo's hand, he held it tightly in his own, then Gorbag began walking, his eyes fixed on the cavernous wall painted red and yellow with the fires from the Crack of Doom.

As he fell, he closed his eyes and saw grass, and he smiled.

* * *

The Towers of the Teeth flanking the Black Gate began to crumble as the ground heaved beneath their feet. All about her, orcs stiffened and fell, some clutching their heads, others retching violently. The Uruk-hai were not as deeply afflicted, but not spared either. Many of them were driven to their knees.

But Tindómiel's eyes were fixed upon Gokh. He might have been struck equally, but she saw the light go out in his eyes, and she knew he was gone before he hit the ground. A keening wail tore from her throat, and she lunged for him, instinctively hoping that by holding him tightly enough, she could somehow keep his spirit from leaving. Gripping his body close, she wept as if her heart had been torn out.

* * *

Even as the gates began to topple, Leanna saw Kaanurz sway and crumple to the ground with a clatter of armor. With a cry, she hastily dismounted and rushed to his side. Turning the Uruk over, she held him against her protectively, for her company was beginning to move out.

Prying his helmet from his head, she beheld his delirious face, the harsh, brutish lines smoothed and relaxed. She gently stroked his dark cheek.

Kaanurz's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her. His brows arched slightly. "We meet again. People will definitely talk now."

"I do not care," she whispered.

* * *

In the strip of ground at the front, between the officers and the Black Uruks, Aragorn found himself kneeling at the side of Grishnaakh. The old orc had not recovered as his younger fellows had, and now that he was looking about him, the future King of Gondor realized there were several still bodies interspersed with those struggling to rise. At least one he remembered hearing was over a thousand years old. Perhaps the shock was too great for the truly aged.

He could do nothing for _them_ , but Grishnaakh yet breathed, though raggedly. The King laid his hands upon the orc's breast.

* * *

Nearby, Gothmatum rallied his generals and those of the orcs, barking orders. The safest place seemed to be right where they were, but the orcs of Mordor were pouring forth in a panic as the towers fell. Many dropped where they stood; few were able to force themselves to move when the Shadow's hold let loose.

Vulnerable and confused, they made easy targets for the desperate Easterlings. Chaos erupted in pockets of the seething mass. Bellowing with rage, Gothmatum collared the nearest officer and thrust him forward, little realizing that it was an elf.

"Get in there and take'em down!" he roared, turning and directing a company to follow the 'volunteer' commander. Bewildered, Legolas led the equally bemused Uruk-hai into the fray. The Black Uruks stumbled aside to let them through.

Théoden likewise ordered the Eorlingas to advance and quell the rebellious Easterlings.

* * *

He was gone, yet Tindómiel could not let him go. Perhaps she never would. Such a huge part of her – nurtured and coaxed into being by the very one who betrayed her – had been ripped out, and she felt empty. Lost. Alone.

 _Let them come_ , she thought, dimly noting the chaos around her, just beyond a ring of Uruk-hai someone had ordered to shield them. _I no longer care what becomes of me._


	17. Epilogue: The Path of Darkness

Following the events at the Morannon, and the return of Frodo and Sam by the exhausted but relieved orcs who survived the eruption of Mount Doom, the forces parted ways. Those orcs and Black Uruks of Mordor returned to their lands. They were freed of the Shadow and no longer beneath the boot of cruel masters. There was work to be done.

The combined forces of Rohan and Isengard retreated to the Field of Cormallen in North Ithilien to rest and consider the next steps. The Uruk-hai knew no home but Isengard, its green swards ruined by the machinations of their own master, yet they lacked the skills of their cousins to make it grow again. All they knew how to make was war, and the drive to do _that_ had been smothered.

Gondor arrived at Cormallen as the tents and pavillions were being erected, and Boromir met with the reunited Fellowship while his men set up their own encampment.

"Where will you go?" Gandalf asked gently, puffing on his pipe. "Will you return to the West?"

Tindómiel had barely spoken since the loss of Gokh. Prying her from his still form had required Gothmatum's strength and Aragorn's compassionate voice.

Slowly raising her head, she met Gandalf's gaze. "Not for a thousand years," she said softly. "Lest there be... embarrassing meetings." A slight smile curved her mouth briefly and she looked away. "I would not be welcome there in any case, after what I have done."

Gandalf nodded. "I was told of whom you served when last I was there. There was much concern for what this would mean." Then he smiled. "I had faith in _you_ , where I had none in your master."

"I was a fool," she said quietly.

"I do not think you a fool," Aragorn said. "Many lives might have been lost, had we fought the orcs. You made us see them as allies, and they proved strong and loyal as such." Glancing over at Frodo, still recuperating on a pallet and equally silent since his return to them, the Ranger sighed. Sam had the strength of will to at least tell them of their path since Amon Hen, but when his tale reached Mount Doom, there he faltered, and neither hobbit seemed inclined to continue. Not even Merry and Pippin's urging could pry those final moments from their lips.

Boromir shook his head. "You certainly have a loyal follower in that Grishnaakh. Where is he, by the way?"

Sighing, Aragorn replied, "Awaiting orders. He has pledged himself to my service for saving his life." Raising an eyebrow at Boromir's snort, he added, "I need him, Boromir. I know almost nothing of orcs or their ways. We hope for a lasting peace with his folk. It will not come if we do not understand them."

"Their ways are indeed different," Legolas mused. "Any word from Théoden's camp about the negotiations for settlements?"

"The talks continue," Aragorn sighed. "I have offered Gondor, following my coronation, but they ask for much more than a place to call their own."

"Mates," Gimli growled. "I have heard they want _mates_. And that... Grishnaakh says none of _their_ females will have the Uruk-hai."

"I doubt the Uruk-hai would want them," Tindómiel said dully. "They were bred _from_ Men. They have always bred _with_ the Race of Men. Such diligent exposure has colored their... preferences. If you would condemn any for this, turn your anger toward Saruman. It was his doing."

"I cannot agree to such a thing," Aragorn insisted. "You _know_ I cannot. How would it be different from what Saruman did, if I were to do so?"

"It wouldn't," she replied softly, turning away. "So they must content themselves with what they can get now. Time enough for... the rest of it... when things have settled." Still, she thought sadly of Kaanurz and Leanna.

Kaanurz had attempted to console Tindómiel, but his own grief, unexpectedly strong, rendered him incapable of offering much. The death of his brother in battle he could have weathered; being taken as he was, with no foe to fight, no weapon he could use, and for the purpose of punishing another... These things were unbearable. Nor was he able to bear the company of Leanna, for what he wanted of her was denied his brother. He tore himself from her side and took himself far away in the Uruk side of the encampment. Leanna, just beginning to see him differently, felt confusion and hurt at his abrupt departure. And Tindómiel lacked the will to set it right.

"Your voice should be heard in these meetings," Gandalf said delicately, and Tindómiel glared at him.

"My... _voice_... has been heard quite enough," she snarled with sudden vehemence. "My _voice_ could have destroyed all of Arda. It is time for silence. I have given you my counsel; that is all I have to offer."

"Then you _will_ depart to the West?" Aragorn said.

"Not so far west," she said more calmly. "I thought... perhaps to settle in Fangorn's Wood. He has always been a good friend."

"You would be near enough to Rohan, then," Gandalf said with a wry smile.

"Near enough," she shrugged.

In the corner, Frodo cleared his throat, and all heads turned in his direction. He could not look at any of them, and his voice trembled as though he had only just at this moment gathered the courage to speak. "I... failed... at the end. I could not discard the Ring."

"How came it to be destroyed?" Gandalf asked. "Was it you, Sam?"

Sam shook his head. "No. It was Gorbag."

"An orc... saved us," Frodo whispered, tears filling his eyes. "Saved us all. He took the Ring from me and he... walked into the Fire."

"He wanted to... plant... trees," Sam breathed, then dropped his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

"That is... I can find no words strong enough," Legolas growled, staring at Gothmatum. The Uruk general curled his lip.

"Then hold your tongue, _golug_ ," Gothmatum snapped. "Grishnaakh said this is custom, so it is done. What would _you_ give one robbed of a mate, eh?" Looking the elf up and down with clear distaste, he barked, "Pity? What good is that?"

"She is not an orc," Legolas hissed.

"Not by blood, no," the Uruk general shrugged, turning away. "Where it matters, she might as well be." Eying the line of Uruk volunteers, Gothmatum scrutinized their faces, their builds, looking for one that most resembled the fallen captain. While appearances were not mentioned by the old orc as part of the selection, the Uruk felt that it might make a difference in acceptance. It was true, she was not an orc; he'd learned she was _golug_ by blood. There must have been something in Gokh's looks that found favor in her eyes.

"You," he finally said, pointing at a young Uruk with a wiry build. Perhaps not as big as the captain, but in the face... they might have come from the same sire. The chosen one stepped forward and held his head up proudly. "Name?"

"Akulzhaf," the Uruk growled.

"Follow me," Gothmatum snarled, and turned on his heel. The chosen Uruk walked straight-backed and rigidly in his wake.

At Tindómiel's tent, a soldier of Rohan nodded to the general and ducked inside to announce him. In moments, the two Uruk-hai were ushered inside.

Tindómiel knew this was coming, and had given it much thought. While the brutal lives of orcs might make it easier for them to accept such replacements for the fallen, she required no male to support her, and had no offspring to feed. There was almost nothing this Uruk could provide except a surfeit of pain, which assailed her the moment she saw his face.

So eerily like Gokh's...

She nearly faltered, almost rejected the offer. But the Uruk-hai were so terribly young, and trying desperately to be orcs and Men at the same time. She had already decided she would accept the Uruk, if only to discharge him at a later time when his honor would still be intact. But she could see now that it would be an agonizing wait.

"He is not... Gokh," Gothmatum said awkwardly, and Tindómiel winced at the name, "but he has sworn to serve in his place. He is called Akulzhaf. Whatever you require of him, he will provide."

Taking a deep breath, she said evenly, "Thank you, _maugoth_. I am... honored by your gift. He is quite... satisfactory."

Relieved, Gothmatum nodded to her, jerked his chin sharply at Akulzhaf, then left the tent.

Unable to look at the young Uruk, she turned away and sat on her cot, covering her face with her hands for a moment. When she looked up at him, he hadn't moved from the entryway, his yellow eyes fixed on her.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to a campstool across from her. He obeyed immediately. "You are young, are you not?"

Akulzhaf nodded. "Four months," he rasped. His voice was nothing like Gokh's; Tindómiel almost sighed with relief.

"Did you know... him?"

The Uruk bowed his head uncomfortably and nodded, but said nothing. She didn't think she wanted to know more than that.

"It would be unfair not to tell you my thoughts," she began. "I only agreed to this arrangement so I would not insult your folk. These things are not done among my people. You are _not_ a replacement for him, and you will not have access to my bed. My heart died with him; do not hope to win it for yourself. And do not _ever_ say his name in my presence."

"How may I serve you then, _Grishh_ _û_ _nhul_?" he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she regarded him for a few moments, then allowed a slight smile. So young and eager to please...

"How are you at building houses, Akulzhaf?"


End file.
